


Looming Gaia: Dirty Animal

by TheGreys (alienjpeg)



Series: Looming Gaia [13]
Category: Freelance Good Guys, Looming Gaia
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Centaurs, Child Abuse, Explicit Language, F/M, Fantasy, Fauns & Satyrs, Humor, Magic, Pregnancy, Sad with a Happy Ending, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-15
Updated: 2019-01-15
Packaged: 2019-10-10 17:43:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 49,639
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17430542
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alienjpeg/pseuds/TheGreys
Summary: For the satyrs of Looming Gaia, life is wild and often unfair from the start. Itchy was born with empty hands in the backwater region of Southriver Wood. But as he grows older, he begins to long for better things. Can he build a home from nothing? Or will he be shunned, banished to a feral life in the forest?





	1. MOONSHINE

**Author's Note:**

> Although this story can be enjoyed on its own, it ties in strongly with the Freelance Good Guys series. Check out Freelance Good Guys stories 1-6 to get the most out of this one.
> 
> For concept art, discussions, and more about the World of Looming Gaia series, check out the blog: http://www.loominggaia.tumblr.com

### [CHAPTER 1: MOONSHINE]

 

     _SPRING, YEAR 5963_

 

     The satyrs of Looming Gaia had a chaotic reputation. Many believed they had so much love within them that they couldn’t contain it all, and so promiscuity and dysfunction spilled from their souls. But for all the love satyrs had for the world, the world hadn’t much love for satyrs.

 

     Circumstance had spit in Calamity’s face from the day she was born. She spit right back by indulging in every impulse she had. Life was always dangling carrots just out of her reach, so when Calamity managed to snatch one, she sank her teeth in deep and she let go for nothing.

 

     Even life’s blessings could be curses in disguise. Calamity was excited about her baby when she carried him in her womb, but now she was miserable as she carried him on her back. The baby shared her brown skin and darker brown hair, thick and curly. But her eyes were golden while his were steel-gray, and she spent much time trying to remember which of her clients shared such eyes.

 

     For that was all Calamity had in the way of romance: clients. Love was but a transaction, a way to put coins in her bag and alcohol in her blood. Tonight the clients were stingy and her bag was empty, so her lips were dry. This was unacceptable. So unacceptable that Calamity pulled the sling off her back, where her baby was swaddled tightly inside, and she left him in the middle of the road.

 

     This winding dirt road passed through the settlement of Taybiya. It was a primitive, woodsy little forest-town in Southriver Wood, Noalen. A backwater kind of place with an overcrowded jail, no kingdom to police it, and no military to protect it. It was the kind of place Calamity thrived as a stereotypical thieving, conniving, satyress.

 

     The sun had already set. The day was winding down, the citizens of Taybiya returning to their little stone houses for the night. Fewer people outside meant fewer witnesses as Calamity hid in the bold shadow of a tree. She peeked around its mighty trunk, watching her child squirm and fuss in the barren road.

 

     His mother’s warmth was gone. He cried out for her, but she did not come. Instead, she waited until a villager happened by—a middle-aged human with a sack of grain on his shoulder. Calamity grinned with anticipation. The man saw the crying baby lying there all alone, and just as Calamity knew he would, he stopped to investigate.

 

     The man set his grain aside, tilted his head down at the child. His bushy brows sagged as he crouched before him. “Hello, little fella,” he said, carefully lifting the swaddled baby. He looked this way and that, but he didn’t see Calamity in her hiding place. He turned back to the baby and muttered, “What are you doing out here by yourself? Where’s your momma, huh?”

 

     As if on queue, Calamity stumbled frantically into the road. Her long ponytail was disheveled, skin dirty and bared except for a leather satchel around her shoulder. She had bitten her own hand earlier to force tears from her eyes, and they sparkled so convincingly when she stopped before the man and cried, “My baby! You found my baby, thank the gods! Oh, thank you, thank you, sir!”

 

     The man’s brows shot up, the slightest smile pulling at his lips. “Oh, uh, yes! Right here, lying the in the road! What happened, miss? Are you two alright?”

 

     Calamity spun her roulette of lies, then she spun a tale about being attacked by Kelvingyard slavers. But she escaped, she told the man as she pulled him into a tight embrace of gratitude. And the slavers must have gotten nervous and dropped her baby as they fled, she told him as she withdrew with his wallet in her hand.

 

     In one swift motion, she pulled away from him and took the baby, smoothly tucking the wallet into the sling. The infant was lying against her back once again, and barely a second later she was shoving the sack of grain back into the man’s hands.

 

     “Thank you, thank you, sir! You’re a wonderful man, yes, thank you!” Calamity blabbered hysterically. She gave him no time to react during the exchange, no time to think, and certainly no time to realize his wallet was gone by the time she disappeared.

 

     And disappear she did, taking off down the winding, maze-like streets until she reached her favorite tavern. The place was dark and smokey, damp and moldy, crawling with vermin both beast and man. But this tavernkeeper allowed Calamity to dance and service clients under his roof. He even allowed her to bring her baby inside and leave him in the broom closet when she was busy with those clients.

 

     The tavernkeeper had something of a soft spot for this baby, for he was born in this tavern’s very own toilet. Calamity staggered in complaining of stomach pain that day, and one hour later she was fishing the poor child out of a trench of filth. “Didn’t even know I was pregnant,” she told the tavernkeeper. “I just thought I was getting fat on your mead!”

 

     Calamity wouldn’t be staying tonight, however. The town was too hot, her hands too red, and she needed to disappear for a couple days at least. So she kindly turned in a “lost wallet”, but not before pulling out the gold coins inside and slapping them on the counter. “I want the cheapest and strongest stuff you got,” she told the elven barkeep.

 

     The barkeep slid the bottles over with reluctance. “I trust you’ll drink responsibly?” he queried. His expression was dull and doubtful.

Calamity snatched the bottles and barked, “I’m ain’t payin’ you to hassle me, Adel!”

 

     Calamity left the bar with four bottles of in-house moonshine clinking in her sling. She took her baby out to make room, held him against her hip as she left town. Out of Taybiya and into the wilderness she went, off the beaten path, through the woods, and finally she arrived at a little campsite in a clearing.

 

     Here stood a most crude lean-to of sticks and grasses. It kept the rain off, mostly. A circle of stones made up the firepit nearby. Glass bottles, broken shards, animal bones, puddles of vomit and other bodily fluids littered the site. The mess mattered not to Calamity, for she’d only been here for two days and she didn’t intend to be here for over two more.

 

     Before long she’d pack up her baby and her scant belongings, and they would move on to greener pastures. Just like her ancestors and their ancestors before them, Calamity would live wild and free like a true, traditional satyr. No one expected any different from her, so what reason did she have to settle down?

 

     As far as she was concerned, her only responsibility was keeping her child alive—and that obligation ended in just a decade or so. As soon as the horns sprouted from his head, she would abandon him as her mother abandoned her. And like them, he would grow up to be wild and free and so very full of love.

 

     Tiny streams of smoke were still rising from the firepit, all full of ash. Quickly Calamity ripped a fistful of grass from the soil and tossed it over the cinders. She gathered bits of kindling from inside the lean-to and arranged them in the pit as she was taught long ago.

 

     Once the fire was roaring once more, she made her way to the massive rotting log lying on the edge of the clearing. Though this tree had been dead for centuries, it hosted plenty of life within. Slug and bug traffic flowed along every inch of its bark. Calamity smacked a line of black ants and licked them from her palm.

 

     Picking three fat, yellow slugs from the base of the log, the satyress pierced them upon a stick and roasted them over the fire. Nearby her baby played in the grass, finally free from his swaddle. She glanced over at him, a smile tugging at her lips as she watched him climb atop a mossy stone.

 

     “The moss is slippery, Itchy,” she warned him. The baby paid her no mind. Unlike most peoples, satyrs were mobile within their first year. Already the baby’s furry goat-legs were strong enough to hold him upright, his grip tight enough to pull his own bodyweight.

 

     Itchy looked back at his mother, standing tall and proud on the stone. He raised his arms victoriously and called to her, “Ba-Ba!”

“Yes, I see you,” Calamity grinned. She waggled her stick towards him and went on, “Come get your dinner now.”

 

     Her child eyed the slug on a stick as he pondered. Then he defiantly turned his head and clambered around on the stone. Calamity’s tone dropped slightly when she said, “You little flea…”

“Ba!”

“Come eat.”

“Baaa!” the baby shouted, then shortly after his tiny hoof slipped on the moss. Down he toppled, bashing his skull against the stone before rolling into the grass.

 

     A red scrape opened on his forehead. Itchy lie there wide-eyed, staring at the canopy of trees above. A laugh burst from Calamity and she said, “That’s what you get! Now come here and eat your dinner, or Ba-Ba’s gonna eat it all herself.” She brought the crispy slug to her mouth and mocked, “Num num num num…”

 

     Scrambling back to his hooves, Itchy rushed towards her with a whimper. He snatched the stick from her hands and ran away with it, plopping down in the center of the clearing. The scrape on his head was promptly forgotten as he nibbled the slug. If he were human or elf, the injury would surely be dire. But a satyrs’ skull was like stone, and even as children their bodies were hardy and strong.

 

     Calamity shook her head and chuckled. She bit into her own slug dinner and spoke over a full mouth, “You’re such a funny little thing. Don’t grow up too fast, okay? Ba-Ba will miss you too much.”

 

     Itchy busied himself with his dinner, glancing back at her. From the corner of his eye he watched as she picked up one of the moonshine bottles. Now with some food in her stomach, she felt it was time to indulge. When the cork popped off, a sharp, pungent stench filled the air.

 

     Calamity knocked back a long swig. Shortly after she let out a belch and laughed. The baby quickly finished the last of his dinner, and then he was approaching her with sticky, grabbing fingers outstretched.

“Ba!” he exclaimed, reaching for the bottle.

His mother muttered, “Alright, alright…” before sucking a bit into her mouth.

 

     The baby satyr stood before her with his mouth wide open, ready to receive the mouthful of moonshine she spit into it. Most of it missed and splashed on his chin. He wiped the excess away and licked it off his hands, and then he was demanding more.

“Ba! Baaa!”

 

     “No more,” Calamity told him flatly. “Ba-Ba worked hard for this stuff and she ain’t wastin’ it all on you.”

“Baaaaa!” Itchy wailed, clenching his tiny fists at his sides.

“I said ‘no’, Itchy! It’s your bed time anyway. Night-night.” She pointed towards the lean-to.

 

     He simply wouldn’t have it. Throwing himself in the grass, the baby screamed and kicked his hooves in the air. He screamed until his face turned purple, all while Calamity hurriedly sucked down the rest of the bottle. She wobbled slightly as she rose to her feet, picking her child up by the ankle and dragging him towards the lean-to.

 

     She tossed him upon the pile of dry grass and animal hides inside, bellowing sarcastically, “Night-niiiiight!” before returning to her seat by the fire. Out of sheer exhaustion the child’s wails quieted to whimpers. His face was wet with teartracks and mucus, but he’d finally accepted the situation. His tongue was burning and his head was dizzy. It felt best to just lie down and go night-night after all.

 

     Likely for the best, as he slept through Calamity’s chaos all through the night. Three bottles were emptied, then shattered when she angrily, drunkenly, pitched them against a tree trunk.

“Parasite,” she slurred, nearly losing her balance as she lobbed another bottle. “Little parasite, you! Sssucked the milk from me, the blood from me, and the sssoul from me!”

 

     Calamity swiped a stick off the ground. She slammed it down into the fire and growled at the night, “Worse than a flea…You’re a _tick_ …’Cause I can’t get ya off me…” Another stick crashed into the fire, spraying cinders all around. A misty rain was falling now, and so the wet grass refused to ignite.

 

     “Lucky I don’t _burn_ you like a tick, ya hear me?” the satyress hollered towards the lean-to. Her baby slept soundly inside, none the wiser. Calamity stood there in a bleary, heavy silence for a long moment. The rain was getting heavier, slapping against the leaves all around. Even in her drunken haze she knew it would eventually kill the fire.

 

     Defeated, she staggered into the lean-to and hugged Itchy close to her teary face. “I’m sorry,” she sniffled against his curly hair. “I don’t mean it. I don’t. I love you, my sweet little flea. I swear I do, ‘cause ain’t nobody ever loved me except you.”

 

     Itchy stirred, blinking his weary eyes. He saw nothing but his mother’s golden eyes glimmering in the darkness. He smelled her familiar scent of sweat and alcohol, and soon it had lulled him back to sleep.

 

*

 

     Two years slogged by like sap oozing from a tree. And how it stuck, how it pulled with each passing day Calamity clung to survival. Her child was growing bigger, stronger, and faster before her eyes, and she could hardly keep up with his antics. Still she looked at him with pride—at least in her sober times—and scrambled to teach him everything she knew.

 

     “Look here, Itchy,” she said quietly, kneeling at the lake’s edge. She sprinkled some flakes of grain on the surface. The child squatted by her side, peering down at the shimmering minnows that swarmed up to eat it. She pointed, went on, “Little fishes eat little things. But big fishes eat little fishes, and who eats the big fishes?”

 

     “Fishy,” the toddler mumbled over his slobbery fist.

“We do,” Calamity told him, pinching his cheek with a smile. “We’re going to catch big fishes today!” With that, she got up and hurried to her cache of stolen supplies hidden in the nearby bushes.

 

     She returned with a rusty steel bucket and a net. The net hung from a loop at the end of a long handle, large enough to ensnare her child if she felt so inclined. The sun was just waking up on this clear summer morning, the calm water was smooth like glass.

 

     Calamity dropped a handful of grain in Itchy’s palm. “Feed the little fishes,” she told him. She held his stubby tail as he leaned over the steep edge of the shore, clumsily tossing the grain at the water. Minnows scattered in fear, then returned in seconds to nibble.

 

     Calamity scooped them up in her net, over a dozen wriggling minnows. Sitting nearby was small wooden dinghy. Calamity had dragged it here from the forest, leaving a trail in its wake. After piling her stolen gear into the stolen boat, she plopped her child in the vessel and shoved off the shore.

 

     With the oars she rowed out to the center of the lake, where the deepest waters and biggest catches lie. The minnows flopped at her feet in the bottom of the boat. Itchy picked one up and put it in his mouth, but she was quick to scold him, “No! Those are for the big fishes, remember?”

 

     The little satyr ignored her and swallowed it. Before he could grab another, Calamity pulled him into her lap, forcing him to watch as she pierced a minnow on the hook of her fishing pole. “Right through the gill, like this,” she explained, then she cast far out into the water.

 

     The morning was calm and serene, quiet except for distant birdsong. At the opposite shore, Calamity saw the movement of deer stooping for a drink. A thin layer of mist rolled atop the still water.

“Ba-Ba, num num!” Itchy announced. He squirmed in his mother’s lap, pointing to the minnows at her feet.

 

     Calamity hushed him and whispered, “I know. We’ll eat soon, okay? But only if you be very quiet, or you’ll scare the food away.”

“Big fishy,” he said quietly.

His mother smiled. “That’s right. Big fishy.”

 

     “Big fishy num little fishy,” Itchy repeated. After a pause, he looked up at her and asked, “I big fishy, Ba-Ba?”

“No, sweet flea.” Calamity’s smile faded. “But you will be someday. Today you’re still a little fishy, and that’s why you have to listen to Ba-Ba. You don’t want to get eaten, do you?”

“Uh-uh!” Itchy shook his head, mop of overgrown hair flopping this way and that.

 

     Together they floated on the glassy lake as the sun crept ever higher. Calamity’s keen eyes watched, her sensitive ears listening for any threats. Ducks floated along the reedy shores as deer passed by to drink. Other forest-peoples showed up occasionally to gather water and frogs from the shore, but only Calamity had the luxury of a boat. She could feel their envious scrutiny.

 

     Now three big fish swirled in her bucket—breakfast, lunch, and dinner, and it wasn’t even high sun. Her child stayed occupied by watching and poking at them. Now he was tugging at her ponytail with urgency.

“I go wee, Ba-Ba,” he said. Calamity paused as she considered her options.

 

     She made her decision and lifted him up to the edge of the dinghy. Supporting him under the armpits, she told him, “Okay, go then.”

Itchy tilted his head. “Wee on fishy?”

“Just go, Itchy!”

 

     Calamity waited for him to finish, closely scrutinizing the shores all the while. The fog was starting to lift. The hair on the back of her neck had been standing on end for the last several minutes, as if some unseen predator was skulking nearby. Then she jumped with a start, nearly dropping her child in the lake when a gruff, masculine voice shouted from the shore.

 

     “There it is! That’s my boat, you gods damned thief!” it called. Calamity whipped her head around, saw a figure running down the trail to the lake’s edge. It was hard to tell from such a distance, but he appeared to be a human with a long brown beard and a ratty straw hat. His build was stocky like an ox.

 

     He rushed into the water, wading in until it was up to his waist. He shook his fist at Calamity and panted, “And my pole! That was my grandfather’s, you beast-whore! Give it back!”

Calamity pulled her child back into the boat, quickly stowing him down by her hooves. She turned to the man and replied, “Calm down! You’ll get it back when I’m done with it!”

 

     The man clenched his fists at his sides and bellowed, “No, you’ll bring it back _now_!”

Calamity shouted, “I’m just trying to feed my kid!”

“I don’t care! That’s my damned property! What makes you think you can just take peoples’ things in the night?”

 

     The two hollered back and forth over the lake. All the while Itchy was unfazed, poking at the minnows before him. They were dry and dead now. He picked one up, gave it a shake and tried to rouse it. Then he held it up to his mother. “Fishy night night, Ba-Ba?” he queried.

 

     Calamity hushed him, pushing him down once more. “You shouldn’t have been so rude,” she told the man. “You came out here swingin’ and callin’ me names, so if you want this garbage back, then come out here and get it!”

 

     With that, she lobbed the pole far out into the water. It sank in an instant, lost to the deepest depths of the lake.

 

     The man shouted a string of obscenities. Then he pulled something off his back—a hunting bow, Calamity realized—and now he was nocking an arrow. The satyress opened her mouth to protest, to wave her white flag, but it was too late. An arrow whizzed by her head and she threw herself down with a shriek.

 

     “Figures you’re a _satyr_!” the man spat. “Puttin’ a couple of you down would do the whole world a favor, far as I’m concerned! You messed with the wrong man!”

 

     Another arrow flew. Calamity winced as she heard it _thunk_ into the side of the boat. Only now was Itchy getting anxious as she pinned him against the floor. “What happen?” he asked.

Calamity gnashed her teeth, spoke over the man’s distant shouting, “A big fish is trying to eat us. So we…um…”

 

     She glanced around for a moment in thought. Then she decided, “We have to swim away, okay? Hold on to Ba-Ba and do _not_ let go, understand?”

Itchy nodded. He wrapped his arms tightly around her neck as she pulled him close. Calamity heard another arrow whiz by, and as the woodsman nocked another she quickly flipped herself over the side of the vessel.

 

     She and her child splashed into the glassy water, leaving their breakfast, lunch, and dinner behind. Her limbs thrashed, propelling her as fast as she could manage. She was headed towards the opposite shore as far from the man as could be.

 

     Just as she surfaced for a breath of air, she let out a scream as a sharp pain tore through her thigh. Down she sank again, sputtering below the water. She kept swimming on, tried to ignore the arrow sticking out of her. A trail of blood bloomed through the water in her wake. It left a trail all the way to the shore.

 

     Her child was crying now, heaving and sputtering, spitting up water. Still he clung to her chest as she stumbled through the bushes and out of sight. The angry man was left behind to chase his damaged vessel, all full of arrows.

 

*

 

     Business was starting to pick up at high sun. Peasants filed into the grimy old tavern for lunch and drinks. All seemed quiet, nothing out of the ordinary until the door flew open and slammed against the wall.

 

     The slim elven barkeep and his patrons turned to see Calamity staggering through the doorframe. Her child was clinging to her neck, wailing inconsolably. The barkeep’s brows shot up when he saw the arrow protruding from Calamity’s thigh, the surrounding fur sticky with blood.

 

     She left a trail of it when she limped to the bar counter. Leaning upon it, she cried at the barkeep through gnashed teeth, “Adel, get Mr. Sarfeesha! Quick, I’ve been shot!”

Without a word, Adel nodded and rushed into a room behind the counter. Calamity could hear his footsteps trailing up a creaky staircase above.

 

     A low murmur spread through the tavern. Patrons began surrounding her, offering their help. Calamity waved them away, forced a smile as she told them, “I’ve suffered worse. Mr. Sarfeesha will take care of me; he always does.”

 

     Moments later, Adel returned to the counter with someone else in tow. He was a roshava, a four-armed humanoid who towered over seven feet tall. His beet-red skin was craggy with age, his once dark hair now gray and pulled into a knot. His jaw was hairless and like many of his kind, he had faded tattoos upon his chin.

 

     His brow seemed wrinkled and hardened by decades of anger. But it softened immediately when he saw Calamity, slumped over his bar with blood pooling at her hooves. Her son sat on the counter before her. Surrounding patrons had managed to calm his wailing to sniffles.

 

     “Mr. Sarfeesha,” Calamity croaked through pale lips, “Someone shot me. Please…”

“Say no more,” the roshavan man replied. He pointed one of his four hands towards the child and ordered, “Adel, get the kid some grub and lock him up ‘till we get back.”

 

     Adel obeyed and moved in to take the child. Itchy’s wails returned as he was carried away from his mother.

“Ba-Ba! Ba-Baaaaa!” he screeched. Mr. Sarfeesha led Calamity away up the stairs.

Before they parted, she turned to her child and told him, “Ba-Ba will be okay, Itchy! Be good!”

 

     The child wriggled in Adel’s skinny arms. The elf hushed him, and then yowled as tiny teeth sunk into his hand. “Ow! You brat!” he growled. Wrenching open the door to the broom closet, he dropped the little satyr on a pile of dirty linens. Before Itchy could right himself, the door slammed in his face.

 

     He called for his mother through his tears, pounding the door with his fists and bashing it with his forehead. After a few minutes it opened once more. There stood Adel, holding a plate in his bandaged hand. Upon it was a slice of toast generously sprinkled with sugar.

 

     The elf kneeled before the young satyr. His thick, ivory-white braids dangled down to his bronze neck, each one tipped with a wooden bead. The anger was absent from his voice when he said, “Enough noise, okay? Look here. It’s sugar toast, your favorite!” he placed the plate on the floor and rustled the child’s hair.

Itchy whined, “Want Ba-Ba!”

“Your mother will be back soon,” Adel explained. He rose to his feet. “Until then, no noise. Remember what happens when you’re noisy?”

 

     Itchy’s gaze flicked over to the straw broom, looming menacingly against the wall beside him.

“Owie,” he answered.

Adel nodded, “That’s right. No noise, no owie. Be good. I’ll come check on you later.”

 

     The door swung with a creak, clicked shut and left the child in darkness. Only a beam of light peeked through the bottom of the door, illuminating a strip where he sat and slowly ate his toast. Each bite was punctuated by a sniffle. When the plate was licked clean, he rummaged through the buckets and baskets in the corners.

 

     Here he had stored his toys. They were simple wooden animals, all gifts from Mr. Sarfeesha. They had always kept him busy when his mother was away, doing whatever she did while they were here. Sometimes it felt like he was waiting forever. But if nothing else, this broom closet had always been a _safe_ place. Unlike the forests, the streets, and now the lake.

 

     This cramped, moldy space was his bed, the stench of filth and alcohol his comfort, the murmur of drunkards outside his lullabies. Itchy knew all this grime and degeneracy as “home”.

 

*

 

     The closet door creaked open, flooding the room with light. Calamity saw her child curled up on the dirty linens, fast asleep with a wooden horse in his hand. She gently pried the toy from his grip and picked him up. Slowly he stirred, then gasped when he saw his mother’s face.

 

     “Ba-Ba home!” he exclaimed. Calamity laughed when he threw his arms around her neck, hands still sticky with sugar toast.

She kissed his equally sticky cheek and said, “Ba-Ba missed you so much! You’re all sticky—did you get something to eat?”

“Toast!” Itchy pointed to the empty plate on the floor.

 

     Calamity turned to Mr. Sarfeesha standing just behind her. His top set of arms were crossed, the bottom set planted on his hips. She said, “Thank you for all this. I’ll pay it back, just give me a night or two.”

 

     The roshava waved his hand. “We’ll talk when that gapin’ hole in your leg closes, how about that?” He shook his head. “Can’t believe that bastard tried to _kill_ you over a little rowboat, ‘specially in front of the kid!”

 

     He reached forth and pinched the child’s cheek. Itchy slapped his hand away and buried his face in his mother’s long, loose hair. Calamity replied, “He was _human_. What else you expect? They look at a gaian and all they see’s a dirty animal.”

Mr. Sarfeesha nodded. “I know. I hope you don’t take it personal, Cal. They’re just ignorant, backwater yokels. That’s how it is up here.”

 

     Calamity sighed. After a pause, she went on, “It’s okay. I get ‘em back. When I screw humans, I screw ‘em three times, if you know what I mean.”

“Not sure I do.” The roshava cocked an eyebrow.

 

     The satyress told him flatly, “I offer tail for free. Then I swipe their wallet. Then to rub salt in the wound, I go and tell their wives.” She shot him a wry smile. “Sometimes I even get a reward for snitchin’. People screw me every day, Mr. Sarfeesha. But if they wanna call me an animal, they’re the ones fuckin’ a goat.”

 

     The tavernkeeper threw his head back and let out a hearty laugh. He patted the satyress on the shoulder and began leading her back to the bar. “I often regret never marrying,” he said. “You make me feel better about my decisions, you wretch. Ever think about that? Settling down, getting hitched?”

 

     Calamity slid onto a barstool while Mr. Sarfeesha rounded the counter, taking Adel’s place at the bar. The elf slipped on his leather coat, tipping his hat to them before he left. Itchy waved and said, “Bye bye, Adda!” before the front door closed behind him.

 

     He sat in his mother’s lap and absently chewed on her hair. He glanced down at her thigh, wrapped tightly with gauze. The arrow was gone. Mr. Sarfeesha poured a stein of mead for Calamity as she explained, “Settle down with _who_? Nobody wants to be caught fuckin’ an animal, like I said. Maybe you’re not human, but you’re still a commoner. You can’t understand how they treat us gaians ‘till you’ve lived it.”

 

     “So why not find a nice satyr like yourself?” the tavernkeeper asked. His strained smile was disingenuous, his tone dusted with sarcasm.

Calamity shook her head. After a sip of mead, she queried, “How many satyrs do you throw from this bar in a week, Mr. Sarfeesha?”

 

     “Oh, a couple dozen maybe.”

“Right,” Calamity grinned, eyes weary above. “So you know how they are. And if you think the ones here in town are bad, you ain’t seen true savagery ‘till you’ve spent a night in the wild. Nasty, nasty ferals out there.” She tipped her head down at her child. “They’d steal a baby and break its little neck just to have its mother to themselves. Seen it before.”

 

     The roshava winced. He left briefly to serve another patron. Then he returned and said, “I don’t like you stayin’ out there, Cal. Forget about satyrs—there’s bears and slavers and gods knows what else skulkin’ around Southriver Wood. Call me naïve, but I thought you’d clean up and clear out by now.” He gestured to the child. “Can’t stow him in my closet forever, you know. Don’t you ever think about the future?”

 

     Tipping back the last of her mead, Calamity wiped the froth from her mouth and sighed, “Try my best not to.”

 

*

 

     With her leg in such a state, Calamity had no chance of running from her problems. “So I’ll see to it you stay out of trouble,” Mr. Sarfeesha told her, and offered one of his beds for the week. It was only day 3 and Calamity was finding it difficult to keep herself occupied.

 

     No sex, no booze, and especially no fighting. Those were the tavernkeeper’s conditions of her stay.

“And why not?” she asked.

To which he replied, “Because you’re in no shape for hittin’ or being hit. Besides that, Cal, you’re a viciously mean drunk!”

“I am not!” Calamity argued, but she had already lost.

 

     Adel arrived early that morning. He hung up his coat and hat and started preparing food for the day. The tavern was quiet and empty now, but come high sun it would be bustling with hungry lowlifes as it always was. He carried half of the business on his shoulders as Mr. Sarfeesha’s sole employee, while Mr. Sarfeesha himself was burdened with the other half.

 

     Perhaps the load would be lighter this week, Adel thought, when he asked Calamity to help him in the kitchen. She sat upon a stool before a sack of potatoes, peeling away endlessly while Adel rushed about doing other things. Such mind-numbing work was torture for Calamity. She craved the challenge, the adventure, the adrenaline rush of her usual grind.

 

     More than that, she craved her usual vice. She glanced over at the wine rack in the corner, taunting her with fine alcohols she could never afford. And even if she could, she wasn’t allowed to indulge until the week was done. She then looked to Adel, who was carefully pulling bread from the oven, and she said, “I’ve been skinning taters for an hour straight. Don’t I deserve a drink?”

 

     Adel tipped his chin towards the giant kegs at the back of the room. “Have yourself some water then.”

“I mean booze,” the satyress clarified. “Just a bottle, that’s all. Can’t get drunk off that!”

“No. Mr. Sarfeesha’s rules, not mine. Take it up with him if you’ve got a problem with it.”

 

     Calamity let out a rough sigh and dropped the potato back in the bag. There she sat and pouted, arms crossed over her bare chest. Her gaze kept travelling back to the wine as if it called out, beckoning her. She knew the tavernkeeper was as stubborn as she was determined, so she wasn’t about to waste time arguing with him again.

 

     Instead, she stood up and said, “I’m going to check on Itchy,” before limping her way to the little broom closet in the hall. Carefully she turned the knob, peeking through the crack. Her child wasn’t sleeping as she expected. Rather, he was wide awake and playing with his toys.

 

     “Are you ready for breakfast?” she asked. The young satyr turned to her, his furry brown ears drawn low.

After a brief pause, he pointed to the corner and told her, “Ba-Ba, I shit.”

Calamity sighed, scrubbing the space between her eyes. “Don’t say ‘shit’, it’s rude. Say ‘poo’.”

“I poo, Ba-Ba.”

“You really couldn’t hold it ‘till I got here?”

 

     Itchy shook his head. Calamity sighed once more, “It’s okay. Come on, let’s get some food.” She extended a hand and he eagerly took it. Together they returned to the kitchen, where Calamity sat on her stool again, this time with her child in her lap instead of a pile of potatoes.

 

     Adel cut two slices from a loaf of bread. He piled mysterious ground meat onto them, then offered them to the satyrs on ceramic plates. “Eat in the kitchen,” he told them. “Mr. Sarfeesha doesn’t like customers seeing a kid in here. Makes them think they can get away with it too, and before you know it we’re a daycare.”

 

     Calamity smiled, spoke over a full mouth, “They ain’t as special as me.”

The elf shot her a sidelong look as he piled more meat in the grinder. “Don’t think we do any of this for you, Calamity. He has a soft spot for that kid and you know it, so don’t start taking it for granted.”

 

     The satyress let out a snort. “So, what? The day Itchy sprouts horns and leaves, you’re gonna drop me like a hot plate?”

“If it were up to me, yes.”

“You’re a jackass, Adel!” Calamity shook her head, turning away from him as she tore into her sandwich. In her lap, her child was disassembling his own sandwich into a mound of mush on his plate.

 

     “Takes one to know one, doesn’t it?” Adel replied sharply. “Listen. I may not like you, but that doesn’t mean I don’t pity you. You’re just a kid yourself. How old, exactly? Fifteen, sixteen years?”

 

     Calamity shrugged. “Damned if I know. My momma kept track of that stuff for me. I lost count when we parted because she never taught me what comes after twelve. That’s when she left me. Twelve years.”

 

     “And you can’t recall how many winters you’ve seen since?”

“Nope. All my years blend together. It’s all the same shit.”

“ _Poo_ , Ba-Ba,” her child reminded her.

Calamity chuckled and wiped the food off his face with her hand. She licked her palm clean and replied, “Yes. Thank you, Itchy.”

 

     At the long table, Adel began rolling the ground meat into balls and wrapping them in paper. “I hope he’ll be better than you,” he told the satyress. “In every respect.”

Calamity looked down at her child. Her face was burdened with a heavy weight. “I hope so too.”

 

*

 

     Five days passed since Calamity was shot. When Mr. Sarfeesha peeked at her wound that evening, he didn’t like what he saw.

 

     “Looks infected. Smells infected too,” he grunted, tossing the old gauze aside. Calamity sat on the edge of a cot in the dusty attic room, her child jumping on the thin mattress beside her. The satyress stretched her swollen leg out, gnashing her teeth as Mr. Sarfeesha poured alcohol over the wound on her thigh. The excess dripped into a bucket below.

 

     After wrapping the wound once more, he placed his top left palm against her forehead. The lines on his face deepened ever so slightly. “You feel feverish, Cal,” he said.

 

     The satyress nodded wearily, strands of greasy hair hanging loose in her face. “I sure do.”

Itchy stopped jumping. His brows were sagged with concern. He turned to Mr. Sarfeesha and said, “Ba-Ba owie.”

Forcing a smile, Mr. Sarfeesha rustled the child’s hair, replied, “Yes. But she’ll get better, because she’s going to stay in bed and take it easy for another week. Aren’t you, Cal?”

 

     Calamity raised an eyebrow. “Another week? God no, I gotta get out and make some coin! I’ll rest for two more days and that’s it. Then I’m hitting the streets, sick or not.”

“You’re staying and that’s that. Food and board are on me. What do you need coin for?”

“None of your business.”

 

     The roshava planted his bottom set of hands on his hips, one of his top hands pinching the bridge of his nose. “You have a problem, Calamity,” he said.

“The only problem here is you,” she snapped. “All this bossing me around! Who do you think you are? My father?”

 

     “May as well be, since yours didn’t stick around and teach you anything! You’re a mess, don’t you see that?” Mr. Sarfeesha told her gruffly, tilting his head towards the child clutching her arm.

 

     He went on, “You shit that one out on my property, and gods damn it, that’s gotta count for somethin’! I love that kid, Cal. I thought you’d do better for him!”

Itchy sat up straight and exclaimed, “Rude! Say ‘poo’, Grappa.”

 

     The old roshava’s wrinkles softened once more. He took a deep breath, calmed his voice and sighed, “Right. I’m sorry, Kiddo. Grampa shouldn’t cuss like that.” With his top set of arms, he lifted the child and held him close to his broad chest. He looked at the little satyr, then back at Calamity. After a pause, he added, “You’re _trying_. I see that. I suppose, well…I suppose you’re doing the best you can, under your circumstances.”

 

     “He doesn’t cuss and he’s not violent at all,” Calamity said quickly. “So clearly I’m doing something right! Just leave me alone, let me live my life. I know exactly what I’m doing.”

“Adel told me the kid bit him three times yesterday.”

“Adel’s an ass! I’d bite him too!” Calamity spat.

 

     Mr. Sarfeesha jabbed a finger against her shoulder and said flatly, “I know you’ve been sneakin’ booze from me, Calamity. And while you’re getting drunk off my coin, Adel’s moppin’ your little one’s piss off my floors. He ain’t a babysitter—he’s my business partner. I don’t pay him to do both, so you need to show some respect. We’ve already given you much more than you deserve.”

 

     Calamity wobbled as she shot to her hooves. She ripped her child from the roshava’s hands and shouted, “And I didn’t ask for any of it, did I? Throw me out if you hate me so much!” Shoving passed him, she stormed out of the room and slammed the door in Mr. Sarfeesha’s face. He heard her hooves stomping noisily down each wooden step, followed by another door slamming downstairs.

 

     The old roshava grumbled curses as he shuffled after her. By the time he reached the bottom of the stairs, she had shut Itchy away in the broom closet and disappeared. Mr. Sarfeesha could hear the little satyr’s muffled crying and bashing against the door. He turned to Adel, wiping a stein with a sour look on his face.

 

     “Adel—” He began.

The elf tipped his head to the front door of the tavern and told him, “She left. Looked mad.”

“I figured…” Mr. Sarfeesha looked around at the dozens of patrons drinking and talking around him. Itchy’s crying could faintly be heard between their chatter. “I’ll go after her. Get that kid to quiet down, will ya?” He clapped Adel on the shoulder, then he too was out the door.

 

     With a roll of his eyes, Adel told his patrons he’d return shortly before disappearing down the hall. When he wrenched the closet door open, Itchy bolted out like lightning and wailed, “Ba-Baaaaa!”

 

     Adel acted quickly, seizing him before he could reach the bar. The little satyr wriggled in his arms and tried to bite his hand, but Adel had gotten wise to his tricks. With that hand he pinched Itchy’s nose and seethed, “I’ve had it up to my eyeballs with you _and_ your worthless mother! Draw one drop of my blood again, kid, and I’ll drop every last one of yours!”

 

     He felt the warmth of tears spill onto his fingertips as the satyr cried, “Go ‘way! Want Ba-Ba!”

Adel carried him back to the closet and dropped him onto the pile of linens. “Stop screaming! Be quiet or you’re getting the broom, do you hear me?”

 

     At this, Itchy let out an angry, piercing shriek and lunged for the elf. He latched onto Adel’s leg, teeth sinking through his cotton pants and deep into his flesh. Adel bit back a scream of his own. His teeth gnashed tightly as he swiped the broom leaning against the wall.

 

     He first used the handle to pry the little satyr from his calf. He then flipped it over and began beating him with the straw-end. “You horrible little animal! I’ve had enough! I can’t stand you!” he growled through grit teeth. Itchy’s sobbing only grew more intense as he burrowed under the linens.

 

     The straw of the broom left no bruises. Physically it hardly harmed Itchy at all. But the sheer terror it caused him was punishment enough, and he sunk his teeth into the fabric to muffle his cries. He knew Adel wouldn’t stop until he was quiet. And sure enough, once he had quieted, the elf tossed the broom back in the closet and slammed the door.

 

     From the other side he said, “That’s better! Now behave yourself until your mother gets back.” Itchy heard his footsteps fade away back to the bar. Once they were gone, he crawled out from the linens in a heap of tears, mucus, and sniffles. He searched the dim, cluttered area until he found all four of his toys. At least they were safe.

 

     There were other things in the closet too. Things that weren’t exactly toys, but he often played with them anyway. He found a damp sponge on the floor and squeezed it. Water dripped out and made a puddle on the floorboards.

“Uh-oh,” the satyr murmured, then quickly covered the puddle with the sponge.

 

     He could barely see it in such darkness, but he realized the mop bucket was full of water when he stuck his hand in it. His stubby tail flicked with delight, his sullen expression perking. In went his wooden horse. It floated like a boat, and it reminded him of the day he rode in a boat with his mother.

 

     That was a scary day, but every day was scary to Itchy. He hardly remembered the incident with the angry woodsman. What he did remember was his mother’s cheers every time she hooked a fish, the fun and excitement they had riding in a boat for the first time ever.

 

     He became lost in his imagination as he splashed in the bucket. Adel’s beating had already become a distant memory, just noise among much greater monsters.

 

*

 

     It was long after dark when Mr. Sarfeesha finally returned with Calamity. She was already drunk and covered in bruises when he found her—how or why, he couldn’t get an answer. The moment he dragged her through the tavern door, he called to Adel, “Got her! Go on home, Adel. Sorry about that. I’ll pay you extra for your stay, just remind me next week.”

 

     The elf stood at the bar, regarding the two with dark bags under his eyes. After filling a stein, he slid it to a thirsty patron before slipping off his apron. “Should have left her to rot,” he muttered.

 

     “Eat shit, hob!” Calamity slurred. She lunged for the elf on unsteady hooves, but Mr. Sarfeesha restrained her with one strong arm.

 

     With that same arm he shoved her down the hallway and growled, “Enough out of you! Get upstairs and sober up! We’ll sort this out tomorrow when you got your head on straight.” He paused briefly. “Or straight as it can be, you screwy girl! You’re a damn mess!”

 

     With a long string of curses, Calamity staggered off down the hallway. Mr. Sarfeesha swiped the apron from Adel and sighed as he slipped it on, “I just don’t know what to do with her.”

“Kick her to the curb, I say. She’s a bum. There’s no hope for her,” the elf said flatly. He began gathering his coat and hat from the wall.

 

     The roshava replied, “But there’s hope for that kid! I’m an old man, Adel. He’s the closest thing I’ll have to a son next to you.”

“So what happens when he’s my age? Is old Calamity still going to be stumbling around the place, fighting with patrons and spewing on your floors? Let them go, you old fool! They’re killing you!”

 

     Adel took off his wool hat and slapped the roshava in the face with it. Mr. Sarfeesha hardly flinched. He just picked his sullen gaze off the floor and nodded. “I know,” he said. “And I’ve tried. But I can’t. Got too many regrets in my life, and gods help me, I won’t let this be another one.”

 

*

 

     Between the darkness and boredom, Calamity’s child had fallen asleep in the broom closet waiting for her return. When the door finally opened and he saw her face, he reached for her and cried out with joy, “Ba-Ba home!”

 

     Calamity leaned in the doorframe, looking down at Itchy through bleary, miserable eyes. They were bloodshot and glassy with intoxication, her expression twisted with many emotions at once. She stooped to pick up the little satyr, but her equilibrium failed her. She toppled forward onto the linens, nearly crushing him beneath her.

 

     Itchy scurried away just in time. Quickly he climbed into her arms, throwing his own around her neck. “Night night, Ba-Ba?” he peeped. But Calamity didn’t answer. Emotion carved the lines in her face even deeper as she struggled to sit up. Tears gushed from her eyes, slurring through yellowed teeth as she pushed him away.

 

     “Get off me, you flea! You tick! _You_ did this to me!” Calamity bellowed. Itchy looked up at her from the floor, eyes wide with confusion. She buried her face in her hands and droned on, “They’re right—they’re all right about me! I’m a dirty animal and I can’t do nothin’ right! I can’t take care’a me and I can’t take care’a you either!”

 

     The door was left ajar behind her, red candlelight pouring in from the hall. Also from the hall Adel was approaching, holding a generous plate of sugared toast. He should have left two hours ago, but his cruelty towards the satyr child had haunted him all day.

 

     So he stayed a bit longer to fix a treat and hopefully make amends. To apologize to Itchy for his short temper, for he knew it was not the satyr’s fault his mother caused them so much misery. He was just as much a victim of hers as Adel was. Perhaps even more so, he realized when he opened the door to a horror show.

 

     He heard a cacophony of violent splashing, Calamity sobbing, and someone sputtering. When he peeked inside the closet, he saw the satyress hunched over a bucket of filthy old mop water. He paused, squinting in the darkness. Finally the reality struck him and the plate fell from his hands, clattered on the floor.

 

     “Calamity! Stop! Stop it right now!” the elf snarled as he threw himself on top of her. They writhed and struggled, boots and hooves scuffling against the floor. Adel tripped over the pile of linens and fell backwards, but his fingers stayed firmly clasped around Calamity’s neck. He went down and she fell against him, finally releasing her hold on her child.

 

     Adel wasted no time clambering over her to reach the bucket. He threw his arms in and pulled Itchy out. The child was silent, motionless, soaked to the bone. He was not breathing. Adel turned back to Calamity lying behind him, his green eyes wide with fury.

“No! Gods, no! What have you done?” he growled.

 

     He didn’t wait for an answer. The elf promptly stepped over her and rushed the child out of the room. Calamity fought to sit up, reaching towards the open doorway. “I didn’t…I didn’t mean it…” she croaked. “I love him…”

 

     Just a moment later, the room spun around her and sent her head crashing back to the floor. Then it all went black.

 

*

 

     “It’s been two days,” Adel said wearily. “He won’t stop asking about her. He just calls and calls, and cries and cries. You have to make a decision, Talul.”

 

     Mr. Sarfeesha leaned over his bar, head buried in all four of his hands. Adel stood on the other side, arms crossed against his chest. The sun was just beginning to rise and every table was still barren.

 

     After a long silence, the roshava dropped his hands to the worn countertop. “The kid deserves the truth,” he muttered solemnly. “He’s just so _young_ , I…What do I even say? How do you tell a toddler his momma’s rottin’ in the clink for life? I can’t do that, Adel!”

 

     “Look,” the elf began, raising a palm, “if you just tell him she’s dead, that’ll be the end of it. He won’t ask questions, he won’t go looking for her…She’ll be out of his life for good, the way she should have been years ago.” He shook his head, braids swinging at his chin. “She was never fit to be a mother. Wasn’t long for this world anyway, we both know that.”

 

     Mr. Sarfeesha took in a long breath, let it out slow. He closed his eyes. When he spoke, his voice was burdened with sorrow, “Breaks my tired old heart to see what became of her. There was a time when I had faith in her, you know.”

“I know.”

 

     “There was a nice girl in there somewhere, Adel, I swear it. Wasn’t her fault. Somethin’ not right in her head, you could just see it in her eyes.” He sighed. “She suffered bad all her life, I’m sure. Booze probably took the edge off.”

 

     “Well, the booze would have _killed_ her eventually,” mentioned Adel. He wiped a stein clean and set it aside, placed a hand on Mr. Sarfeesha’s shoulder. “Don’t grieve for too long, alright? Calamity’s right where she needs to be. Can’t hurt herself or others in there, can’t drink, can’t whore herself out or put herself in danger…Isn’t that what you wanted? She’s safe now. It’s not like any great opportunity was robbed from her. If she wasn’t rotting in jail, she’d be rotting in a ditch somewhere.”

 

     Mr. Sarfeesha glanced up at him, eyes dark under the shadow of his brow. He replied, “I know you’re right about all that. I accept it. My only concern now is that poor kid. He’s got nowhere to go, and if someone doesn’t look out for him, then he’ll be joinin’ his mother behind bars in a few years. Far as I’m concerned, he’s my responsibility now.”

 

     “I know I can’t convince you otherwise,” said Adel, his tone broken and defeated. “I’ve done the whole ‘family’ thing myself and it’s not all it’s cracked up to be. I left Zeffer with his mother because it became clear to me that I was doing more harm than good—and now you want to drop this street-kid on me so I can screw him up too? I’ll just have to wait for the regret to sink in, and then I can say ‘I told you so’.”

 

     Mr. Sarfeesha replied, “And I told _you_ that my life is already full of regrets. You know my biggest one, Adel? That I never did that ‘family’ thing.” He gestured around the room. “Put every last bit of my time and energy into this shit-hole, only for some wayward wench to stumble by and drop life into it. I don’t expect you to understand this, but back where I’m from, we consider that a sign from the stars.”

 

     “I don’t believe in that ‘star’ crap,” Adel told him.

“Good. Otherwise you might end up like me,” said Mr. Sarfeesha, and then he slid out of his stool with a grunt. Before he disappeared upstairs, he added, “I’ll talk to the kid tonight. Might as well get that attic room cleaned up…He’ll outgrow that old closet soon enough.”

 

*

 

     There wasn’t an empty seat in the bar. The room was thick with cigar smoke and drunken laughter. Over the chatter and clinking glasses, Adel hollered towards the kitchen, “Get out here with those rolls, boy! We got people waiting, come on!”

 

     Back in the kitchen, a young satyr boy rushed towards the oven. In his haste he forgot the potholder and burned his hand on the hot metal handle. With a hiss and a loud curse, he shoved his fingers in his mouth to soothe them. He searched all around for the potholders, and by the time he found them the rolls were burning.

 

     Drunk patrons impatiently yelled at Adel from the tables, “What’s the hold up?”

“I want my food!”

“I’m still waiting!”

 

     “I know, I know! It’s a madhouse tonight, give us a break!” the elf called back, sliding another drink down the bar. Finally the satyr boy emerged from the kitchen with a tray of cheese rolls.

“They’re done!” he announced proudly, and presented them to Adel.

 

     The elf cocked an eyebrow. He barked, “Is this a joke? Itchy, they’re black as night! I wouldn’t feed these to a dog, much less our customers!” He let out a sigh, pinching the bridge of his long nose. “I’ll go make them myself. Just…Just stay out here and if you see a mess, clean it. You can handle that, can’t you?”

 

     Itchy set the tray of blackened rolls on the bar and nodded. Sheepishly he mumbled, “Sorry I screw up again…”

Adel sighed, patted his head and forced a strained, “Do better. That’s all I ask.”

 

     Adel disappeared into the kitchen. Itchy picked up the pail of soapy water on the floor, the very same the elf used to clean the tables. But the pail was heavy and Itchy was small—just 6 years old.

 

     Laboriously dragging the pail across the room, Itchy didn’t notice the slosh of the water, the way it left a wet, soapy trail behind him. He brought it to the smattering of muddy footprints by the door and began to scrub at them. Water gushed from the rag, making a pool around him.

 

     The child was on his knees, scrubbing the floorboards with all his might. The puddle spread to his knees and soaked the front of his overalls. “Uh-oh,” he murmured. He dropped the rag and tried to rise to his feet. But his hooves slipped on the soapy water and down he went once more, splashing down into the pail.

 

     The pail fell on its side, water spilling forth like a breeched dam. The child was soaked from head to toe, and then he was screeching above all the other noise in the tavern.

 

     Patrons fell silent and looked his way. First they saw the satyr boy flailing and screaming on the floor, and then they saw Mr. Sarfeesha walk through the front doors with a crate of eggs in his arms.

 

     Everyone saw the disaster coming, but no one was quick enough to stop it as the old roshava slipped on the water. Eggs flew everywhere, splattered all over him, the boy, and the floor. Just seconds after, Adel returned to the kitchen with a tray of hot rolls. He too fell victim to the trail of water, and the rolls and the eggs made soup on the floorboards.

 

     Some of the customers were struck silent. Others broke out into laughter. Mr. Roshava let out a long groan as he struggled to sit up, surveying the disaster around him. The wind was knocked from his chest as Itchy threw himself against him. The child sobbed, “The water get me! It get me, Grappa!”

 

     The old man blinked, stunned into silence for a long moment. He looked at the pail, tipped over on the floor. He looked at Adel, slowly picking himself up among the fresh-baked rolls. Then he looked back at the child and patted his wet head. “Looks like it got me ‘n Adel too,” he rasped.

 

     “That’s it!” Adel growled. He pointed right at Itchy as he stormed to the scene. “I’ve had it! I’m gonna _kill_ that kid!”

“Adel!” Mr. Sarfeesha rose up, holding the child in his bottom set of arms as he restrained the elf with the top set. “Whatever happened here, you know it was an accident!”

 

     “I don’t care! I’m gonna wring his damn neck! Come here, you little snot!” the elf snarled, fighting uselessly against Mr. Sarfeesha’s iron grip. The roshava turned to the patrons, all looking back at him in silence.

 

     With a strained smile he queried, “Everyone having a good night?”

The tension drifted away as the crowd began to laugh. One elven customer stumbled forth and said, “Hey, me ‘n my buddies will take care of this mess, Mr. Sarfeesha! Do what you gotta do!”

 

     The roshava approached the patron with his top right arm extended. They shared a firm handshake. Mr. Sarfeesha told him, “Well, I appreciate it. Tell your buddies they’ll get a free round tonight.”

 

     Adel turned to his boss in disbelief. He trailed him down the hall as he carried the whimpering satyr to the stairs. “Do you think it’s wise to just hemorrhage coin like that?” the elf asked. “The brat already pissed away a tray of dough today, plus the dough I lost, plus the eggs, and—”

 

     “My concern isn’t coin, my friend,” Mr. Sarfeesha told him, gesturing towards the bar. “It’s _people_. You take care of people, they take care of you. As you just saw.” He patted Itchy’s back. “Right now, I’m gonna take care of this little guy. And in a few years, who knows? Maybe he’ll pay it back.”

 

     “At this rate, you’ll be dead by then,” grumbled Adel.

Mr. Sarfeesha shrugged, “Then he can pay it forward. Anyway, get back out there and straighten things up. I’ll be down in a while.” That said, he made his way up the stairs.

 

     Adel stood at the bottom step and watched him go, wearing a surly frown all the while. Once Mr. Sarfeesha disappeared through the attic door, he turned and left with a long-suffering sigh.

 

*

 

     The attic was dim and musty. A rickety cot sat in the center of the room, a dresser off to the side, and not much else in the way of furniture. Toys, dishes, and clothes were strewn all around the floor. The small window was almost opaque with mold and grime.

 

     Mr. Sarfeesha set the sniffling child on the dresser and pulled open the drawers. Empty. So he fished through the clothes on the floor to find what smelled the least offensive. “I thought I told you to do the laundry yesterday,” he said.

Itchy’s gaze fell to his swinging hooves. “I forgot.”

 

     “You need to try harder to be responsible, Itchy. It’s important.” Mr. Sarfeesha gestured vaguely towards the door. “You don’t wanna be like the customers, do ya? Bummin’ around and drinkin’ all day long? They got no responsibilities, see. There’s no pride in that kind of life.”

 

     “I sorry, Grappa.”

“S’alright. Lift your arms, let’s get you out of those wet clothes.”

Itchy obeyed, an overwhelming sense of freedom washing over him as the clothes were peeled away. He never liked to wear them, he was told, and used to take them off all the time as if they somehow offended him. As if he were an animal, Adel would say.

 

     He was just a baby then. Itchy hardly remembered anything from those years—it was all a blur. He had a mother, that he knew. But her face, her voice, her time with him, was lost in the chaos of those years. Mr. Sarfeesha told him that she died from a sickness.

 

     Mr. Sarfeesha moved in to slip a cotton shirt on the child. He stopped, wrinkled his nose and said, “Gettin’ splashed out there was the closest thing you’ve had to a bath in weeks, wasn’t it?”

“No bath! No bath!” Itchy suddenly screeched, kicking and flailing at the roshava.

 

     “Hey, hey, calm down! I ain’t giving you a bath tonight, but…I think you need a scrub-down, at least.”

Itchy shook his head. “No!”

“You smell like an outhouse, kiddo, and your fleas are worse than they’ve ever been! Come on, it’ll only take a minute,” Mr. Sarfeesha told him, and he carried the child down the stairs and into the shower room.

 

     The space was cramped, walls and floors of stone with a drain in the center of the floor. A ten-gallon keg sat on a shelf above, its spout acting as a shower. Itchy struggled and protested, but he was no match for the roshava’s grip. Wetting a rag under the keg’s trickle, Mr. Sarfeesha began to scrub the visible layer of grime from the child’s skin.

 

     “Water scary!” Itchy cried. “I don’t like it! Go ‘way!”

Mr. Sarfeesha’s expression fell, his brow sagged with heavy guilt. “Water won’t do nothin’ to you,” he assured the boy.

“Water hugged me and not letted go!”

“It’s done no such thing, Itchy. It was just a dream.”

“No was not!”

 

     What should have been a quick sponge bath turned into a long ordeal, and by the end of it the child was still riddled with fleas. He finally managed to wriggle out of Mr. Sarfeesha’s grip and bolted off down the hall. The old roshava called it quits then, threw the rag down and got to his feet with a weary groan.

 

     In that moment, Adel poked his head in the doorway and said, “Business isn’t slowing down out here, but I am! I need help! What’s taking you?”

“Hold your damn horses, I’m coming…” grumbled Mr. Sarfeesha. He walked with the elf back down the hall, the front of his clothes splattered with water.

 

     “You smell like a wet dog,” mentioned Adel.

The roshava replied, “Yeah. Got fleas like one too.”

“The whole place is infested. That kid’s a walking biohazard, Talul. You have to bathe him more than once a month.”

“You’re preachin’ to the choir, Adel! It’s just hard, you know? Feels like I’m torturing him, I can’t stand it…”

 

     “He’ll have to get over it eventually,” the elf snapped. “His mother did him no favors with _that_ blunder, but neither are you by coddling him. Gods help me, if he turns into another Calamity, you can kiss my ass goodbye. I won’t tolerate it!”

 

     Mr. Sarfeesha raised a palm, told him sternly, “Won’t happen. Kid’s a little, uh… _Slow_ , it seems, but he’s not a lost cause. Nice little guy, has a good heart. He’s a hard worker and he loves to help.”

 

     “Loves to destroy the place even more…” Adel grumbled.

 

*

 

     Itchy’s celebrated his 9th birthday. Little did he know it was not his true birthday; it was the anniversary of his near-drowning in the broom closet, and the day his mother was incarcerated for the attempted murder of a child.

 

     He didn’t need that kind of darkness in his life, Mr. Sarfeesha thought. For all things considered, Itchy was a bouncy, happy-go-lucky child who longed only for approval and affection. Though between Adel’s impatience and Itchy’s incompetence, those things were in short supply.

 

     The old tavernkeeper was only getting older. His posture was sinking, his joints stiffening, and the cracks on his face were becoming canyons. It was getting too hard to chase the satyr child around and force him to do what needed to be done. So Itchy continued to live up to his name and made peace with his parasites.

 

     On this special day, Itchy was excused from work. He spent all afternoon playing in Taybiya’s busy plaza, where he climbed trees and threw pinecones at villagers down below. He snickered from his hiding place in the leaves every time his victims cursed and shook their fists at gravity.

 

     But now it was getting dark, and Mr. Sarfeesha always told him to come home before the daylight matched the shadows on the ground. Itchy returned to the tavern, returned to the bustling bar that smelled of smoke and booze and vomit. Adel spotted him coming through the door and called, “Mr. Sarfeesha wants to see you, boy! Get up to his office!”

 

     The little satyr flinched. Was he in trouble? Had someone tattled on him for throwing pinecones? Only one way to find out, so he cautiously made his way up the stairs.

 

     There was a short hallway here and additional stairs that led to the attic. Itchy passed several doors in the hall—forbidden rooms, he was told—and sheepishly poked his head through the office door.

 

     Mr. Sarfeesha was hunched over his desk, writing upon a piece of yellowed parchment. Perhaps he wasn’t in trouble, for the roshava regarded him with a warm smile. He set the parchment aside and said, “There you are! Come here, Kiddo. I got a birthday present for ya.”

 

     Itchy’s tail twitched with excitement, sticking out of the custom hole in his overalls. He bounced over to the tavernkeeper’s side and exclaimed, “What is it?”

Reaching under his desk, Mr. Sarfeesha pulled up a wooden stringed instrument. Itchy tilted his head at it, flashing a questioning look at the roshava.

 

     “It’s a lute,” Mr. Sarfeesha explained. “You know those bands that play here sometimes? Well, one of ‘em gave me a good deal on this. It’s got a lot of years on it, but I bet it’s played more songs than I know how to count.” He handed it to the child. Itchy carefully took the instrument and turned it around in his hands. The wood was worn and scratched.

 

     Itchy plucked a string, ears twitching at the sharp note. He plucked another string and made a much lower note. Then he looked up at Mr. Sarfeesha with an ear-to-ear grin and said, “It’s amazing! I love you, lute! I’ll love you forever and ever!” He bounced in place, hugging the instrument close like a doll.

 

     Mr. Sarfeesha chuckled, rustling his overgrown, curly hair. “I knew you’d like it. Adel told me ‘no noisemakers’, but…Well, I think it’s important to have some kind of skill. And I know you’re not really the cookin’ or cleanin’ type. You’re more the _creative_ type, ain’t ya? All that scribbling on my walls…”

 

     Leaning back in his chair, he folded all four of his hands over his belly and went on, “There’s someone else gonna be living here soon. She’s a good friend of Adel’s and she’s a real good musician. She said she’ll teach you how to play that thing.”

 

     Itchy’s ears shot straight up, eyes rounding like coins. “A lady’s gonna live with us? Are you getting married, Grappa?”

“No, no, no!” the roshava laughed. “She’s gonna work for me. She’s a, uh… _Entertainer_. I think she’ll bring some more money through here. And you know what I’m gonna do with that money?”

 

     The young satyr shook his head. Mr. Sarfeesha tapped his nose and finished, “I’m gonna send _you_ to school. One of those fancy ones up in Folkvar Kingdom. You can get yourself some book-smarts, then if you feel so inclined, maybe you’ll wanna come back and help Adel run this dump after I’m gone.”

 

     Itchy’s expression suddenly fell, brow sagging down with his ears. “Gone? Are you going away? Don’t go away!”

Mr. Sarfeesha patted his shoulder and told him softly, “I’m not goin’ anywhere if I can help it. But I ain’t no divine—one day I’ll get old and pass on, and that’s just the way it is. When that happens, I want you to be able to care for yourself.”

 

     “I don’t wanna!” The child’s voice creaked. He dropped the lute and jumped in Mr. Sarfeesha’s lap, clinging to him like a monkey to a tree. “You have to live forever! Don’t die and leave me like Ba-Ba! That’s not fair, Grappa!”

 

     His wrinkled brow creased with guilt, Mr. Sarfeesha wrapped all four arms around the boy and patted his back. “You’re right, it ain’t fair at all. Life ain’t fair to a lot of us. But you know what we do?”

 

     He lifted the child’s chin, looked him in his steel-gray eyes and said, “We do the best we can with what we got. A man born to a mason builds a house of bricks. A man born to a shit-shoveler builds a house of shit. But what matters is that they both made a home for themselves.”

 

     Itchy sniffled, “I don’t wanna live in a shit-house.”

Mr. Sarfeesha patted his back once more, “I don’t want you to either. So always do your best, okay? Promise?”

The little satyr nodded. “I’ll try.”

 

     “And quit that cussin’, you know that’s rude.”

“But you cussed first!”

“Well, I’m grown!” Setting the child back on his feet, Mr. Sarfeesha pushed the lute back in his hands and said, “Your momma never liked that foul-talk out of you. She wanted you to be a better person than her, and I want you to be a better person than me. Who knows? You might just make us proud, kiddo.”

 

*

 

     Iriana’s claws danced over the strings of her lute with surgical precision. Itchy watched her, mesmerized by the entrancing melody. Her lute was unlike his. It was made of gleaming dark wood and embellished with fancy engravings, likely very expensive. Too expensive to be trusted in Itchy’s grimy little hands, so he plucked at his own grimy little lute, struggling to copy her notes.

 

     “I can’t do it,” he whined. “I can’t do _anything_ right!”

Iriana offered a smile, exposing sharp fangs when she told him, “You will get back exactly what you put in.”

 

     “I don’t know what that means,” Itchy pouted.

“It means you don’t deserve beautiful music,” she explained, “because you haven’t spent enough time on it yet. I spent a lot of my money on this beautiful instrument, and I spent a lot of my time learning how to play it. So must you. Now, let’s try again…”

 

     Her fingers danced over the strings once more. Itchy leaned forward, watched carefully. A month ago he refused to be in the same room as Iriana, much less sit beside her on the staircaselike he was today. She struck terror in his heart when she first walked through the door, for she was a towering succubus with great, twisting horns and fangs like a snake.

 

     Bat-like wings sprouted from her back, and below them a long hairless tail. Her skin was red like Mr. Sarfeesha’s, but its tone was deeper like the fine wine shut away in the kitchen. Her sleek, back hair fell loose down her body, down to her shapely hips. She was a monster, Adel told the boy, and that meant she had no soul.

 

      But having no soul did not make her wicked, despite what so many of the townsfolk said. They feared her just like Itchy used to. However, Iriana showed the child nothing but warmth and kindness since she arrived, and by now he had grown to trust her.

 

     She only showed up at night just as Adel was leaving. She never cooked or cleaned or made drinks. Instead, she played music in the bar and then patrons would take her into the forbidden rooms upstairs. If it was a slow night, she gave Itchy lute lessons.

 

     It was well after midnight, but Itchy had no kind of bedtime anymore. Mr. Sarfeesha had grown too old and tired to enforce such a thing. He didn’t enforce much of anything these days, it seemed, for he’d been so busy in his office.

 

     The other children of Taybiya didn’t like Itchy much. They threw rocks at him and called him “dirty” and “dumb”. So he spent his days in the safety of the tavern with the closest thing to a family he had: Mr. Sarfeesha, Adel, and now Iriana.

 

*

 

     The years passed by, each one the same as the last. Things never changed much in Taybiya, much less the dingy little tavern. Same old patrons, same old chores, same old problems. But Itchy couldn’t imagine anything else. His world was small, and likewise was his imagination.

 

     Itchy did not wish or dream. He did not think about the future nor the past. He simply did his menial chores every day, sneaked a sip of booze when he could, and strummed his lute. Life was good here at the tavern, he thought. Mr. Sarfeesha cared for him, Iriana played with him, and Adel…Well, Adel tolerated him at least.

 

     Now Itchy was 12 years old. It was getting harder to ignore his growing size, his changing voice, his worsening stench. Stubby black horns had sprouted from his forehead, and that meant he was old enough to leave his mother, according to Mr. Sarfeesha.

 

     But Itchy didn’t have a mother to leave. Not anymore. So he stayed at the tavern, changing and changing while nothing changed around him.

 

     Until today.

 

     The moment the morticians arrived to gather the body, Itchy knew things would never be the same again. He clung tightly to Iriana, spilling tears onto her dress as he watched Mr. Sarfeesha leave the tavern on a stretcher. He had died sometime in the night of mysterious causes.

 

     Opening time came and passed, and Mr. Sarfeesha still hadn’t done his morning chores. When Itchy went to wake him, he simply didn’t wake. Iriana just happened to stay the night, as she sometimes did when her clients kept her late. She was there to comfort Itchy after she heard him screaming, running up and down the halls in a hopeless panic.

 

     The morticians would determine the true cause of death within the next couple weeks. Until then, Adel was left to sort the tavernkeeper’s affairs. Itchy looked up at the elf beside him. Adel hadn’t a tear in his eye, though his expression was heavy with… _Something_. The young satyr couldn’t place the emotion.

 

     Clearing his throat, Adel leaned towards Iriana and asked, “You got the key?”

The succubus was embracing Itchy with one hand, and with the other she reached between her cleavage and pulled out a silver key. She silently handed it to Adel, who tipped his head and made his way up the stairs.

 

     Itchy’s breath hitched when he asked, “What was that?”

“Don’t worry about it. You have enough troubles on your mind,” Iriana told him. She placed her hands on his shoulders and began leading him to an empty table. All of the tables in the bar were empty, for it was Mr. Sarfeesha who usually opened shop. There would be no business today.

 

     Itchy sat in the rickety chair, dropping his face into his arms as he sobbed. “Adel and I have a lot of work to do now,” said Iriana. “Just take it easy. We’ll sort everything out, okay?”

“I miss him! I want him back! Make him come back, Iriana!” Itchy cried.

 

     The succubus’ painted lips curved into a frown. “If I had that kind of power, I wouldn’t work in a rat’s nest like this,” she said. “Mr. Sarfeesha is gone and there is nothing that can be done. We’ll just have to move on with our lives. That’s what he would want, don’t you think? Not all this crying and grief.” She gently dragged her claw under his eye, wiping the tears away.

 

     She stepped behind the bar counter, clinking glasses and bottles for a moment. When she returned to Itchy, she set a shot glass and a full bottle of whisky before him. “Just this once,” she began, “you can have as much as you like. It numbs the pain, takes the edge off these difficult feelings.”

 

     The succubus poured the first shot and slid it towards him. Itchy sniffled, wiped his eyes with the balls of his hands. With no hesitation, he knocked back the shot. Before she could pour another, he snatched the bottle and began sucking it down. Iriana offered a gentle smile and stroked a lock of his long, curly hair. Then she turned and left, her heeled shoes clacking against every step of the creaky old stairs.

 

*

 

     “ _In the event of my death, I, Talul Sarfeesha, grant full ownership of The Twenty-Fingers Tavern to my friend and business partner, Adel Vengelor, as well as the balances within my business accounts._

_You’ve always been the method to my madness, Adel. I trust that you will make wise decisions and find success where I couldn’t. Much love and best wishes to you, my dearest friend._

_To my employee, Iriana Liavey, I grant my collection of fine wines. Though we did not always see eye to eye, I appreciate all that you’ve done for myself and my business. You’re a gifted young lady. May you find the fortune you’re looking for, and may you never look back._

_To my godson, Itchy, I grant the balance of my personal account under the condition of a trustfund, which may be used for schooling expenses. I know life can be a cruel and unforgiving thing, and not all of us are dealt the same hand. You may have been born in a trough of shit (pardon my language), but then again, so are pretty flowers and the crops that feed us. We can’t choose where we came from, but we can choose where we go next._

_Do your best with what you got, Itchy. All you are is all you are._

_Signed,_

_Talul Sarfeesha_ ”

 

     The will trembled in Adel’s hands. The elf stood before the safe in Mr. Sarfeesha’s office. Morning light pushed through the slatted blinds and pooled at his feet, the air still and lifeless and so very heavy on his shoulders.

 

     A tear dropped onto the yellowed parchment, smudging the ink. Adel folded it up and tucked it into his pocket, pushing the safe closed.

 

     “Forgive my wretched, filthy soul,” he croaked, and then he was gone. The door clicked softly behind him.

 


	2. ORDER OF LOVE AND LIGHT

### [CHAPTER 2: ORDER OF LOVE AND LIGHT]

 

     The next day, the tavern did not open. It stayed closed the day after that, the day after that, and the day after that.

 

     When the tavern was closed, there were no chores to do. So Itchy abused his whisky all night and slept all day. Night after night, day after day. Adel and Iriana were supposedly sorting things out. There must have been a lot to do, he figured, because he hardly saw them around anymore.

 

     One day, Adel approached the young, intoxicated satyr and said, “Listen to me, Itchy. Life is about to kick you like a stray dog, so I suggest you put that booze down and put your fists up. Seeing you like this reminds me of your mother, and I never liked her.”

 

     Itchy blinked his eyes out of tandem, struggling to focus on the elf through the haze of whisky. Adel clutched his shoulders, went on gravely, “I’ve known you since the day your wench-mother birthed you in this very building, and I can see that you’ll be no better. She was a waste and so are you. An utter waste of time and resources.”

 

     Adel shook his head, let out a sigh. “None of it is your fault. I realize that, and I’m sorry. A _tragedy_ is what it is. I wish things could have been different for you, Itchy.”

 

     The satyr struggled to rise from his cot. He wobbled and flopped down again, muttering something unintelligible. By the time he sat up, Adel was gone.

 

     And by the time he woke up from his stupor, the alcohol was gone too. Itchy scoured every corner of the tavern in search of more, but it had all been picked clean. So too were the knick-knacks and anything even remotely valuable in Mr. Sarfeesha’s quarters.

 

     More importantly, Adel and Iriana were missing. Itchy looked at the calendar and realized he hadn’t seen them in over a week. The food in the kitchen was starting to rot. The water reserves were running dry. Chores were neglected, cobwebs were gathering, the place was crumbling before Itchy’s eyes.

 

     The young satyr lie in his cot, absently strumming notes on his lute as he stared at the ceiling. The shock and grief weighed down on him so heavily that he couldn’t move. From the time he woke up, he did not eat or drink or relieve himself. All he could manage was to soothe himself with clumsy music.

 

     At high sun he heard the front door open and footsteps tromping inside. Suddenly the crushing weight lifted. Itchy bolted down the stairs, tail twitching with excitement. But it was not Adel or Iriana. Rather, a human couple and two armored trolls were standing in the bar, having a look around.

 

     The human man spotted Itchy peeking back at him through the doorway to the hall. The old lute was still slung around his shoulder, his hair greasy and unkempt, his skin smeared with weeks’ worth of dirt. His clothes were even filthier with dust and sweat.

 

     Quickly the man jabbed a finger towards him and shouted, “Ugh, guards! Get that squatter out of here! This place really is a dump, isn’t it?” He turned to the woman beside him, spoke to her as Itchy was seized by the trolls. “The lot is worth more than the building. I say we tear it down and start fresh.”

 

     Itchy shrieked and wriggled in the trolls’ grips as they dragged him towards the door. “No!” he cried. “Don’t! You can’t do this! I live here! _This is my home_!”

 

     Every word fell on deaf ears. He was thrown into the street and the door slammed shut behind him. He heard something crunch when he landed, realized it was the neck of his lute cracking.

 

     As he rolled across the dirt, something fell from the pocket of his overalls. A slip of paper. Curiously, Itchy unfolded it and discovered a crudely-drawn map.

 

     Above the map was a long note, but he was barely literate enough to read it. He was going to need help.

 

*

 

     Finding a literate villager in Taybiya was nearly impossible. But one of them at least helped guide Itchy to the mysterious place marked on his map.

 

     This place was located right in the heart of Taybiya, a humble stone building Itchy had passed many times and never gave a second thought. If he could read the words engraved above the door, he would have known this was a “House of Lady Karenza”.

 

     The door was very tall and made of heavy wood, reinforced by two steel bars. The whole building seemed solid and secure. Its tiny color-stained windows sat high upon the walls. Itchy took a deep breath and walked up the front steps, his hooves clacking against each stone stair.

 

     The knocker boomed loudly against the door. Just a moment later he was greeted by a young woman. An extraordinarily _tall_ young woman, towering about eight feet high. Her pink hair was pulled into a bun. She was fair-skinned, though there was a perfectly circular patch on her forehead that was even fairer. It seemed to glow even in the daylight.

 

     Itchy trembled in her presence. He was stricken speechless by her size, her presence, her everything. But her smile was nothing but warm when she queried, “Yes? What can I do for you?” She gazed down at him as if he were an insect, devoid of pupils in her pink eyes.

 

     “Um…I, um…” the satyr stammered. His hands trembled at his sides. Finally he gave up on speaking and simply handed her the note from his pocket. The woman looked at him, hesitating before she took it. He waited as she read it under her breath.

 

     With his keen, furry ears he could just barely hear her read,

 

     “ _Give this note to a priestess at the House of Karenza._

_Priestess,_

_The boy was recently orphaned. He was not raised like a satyr, so please don’t treat him as one. He is slow in the mind, we believe due to an incident he suffered as a baby. Because of this he cannot survive in the forest. He requires care that I cannot provide for him. Please help him, or at least find someone who can._

_\--Adel_ ”

 

     Itchy glanced up at her again. Her expression had changed as she read the note, a crease forming between her brows. She brought a hand to her chest as if her heart pained her, turning back to him when she said, “You poor, poor thing! I’m so sorry, young one.”

 

     She stepped aside and gestured through the doorway. “Please, come in. You look such a mess. We’ll get you cleaned up and fed at least, and then we can talk to the High Priestess about what to do next.”

 

     Itchy hesitated. The doorway led to a long stone hallway, dimly lit by candles melting on bronze sconces. Anxiously he stepped inside and she closed the door behind him. He followed the woman down the hall and through a doorway on the right. The interior was much more inviting than the exterior, to say the least.

 

     This room was spacious, but hardly empty. The walls were choked with thriving plants. Glowing bulbs sprouted from their vines, lighting the room in a warm glow. In the center of the room was a shallow pool where water lilies floated, and around its edges were pieces of mismatched furniture.

 

     The air was alive with chatter from several women. Itchy’s gaze flicked between them all, trying to decipher just what kind of peoples they were. He spotted many elves and humans, some dworfs and fauns, and some more pink-haired women like the one beside him.

 

     Surely they couldn’t be elves, for he’d never seen an elf as tall as they. But they all had pointed ears, and eyes and hair of pink like the woman who greeted him. Each one of them had the same patch of white skin on their foreheads, though their complexions were just as diverse as any human’s.

 

     Itchy followed the woman to the center of the room. Her silken emerald gown billowed behind her. She stopped near the pool, addressing the others when she spoke, “Everyone, we have a visitor. The poor boy has been on his own for weeks and he is in desperate need of care. Would someone kindly fix him a bed and something to eat?”

 

     A murmur spread through the room. Two humans stood up and claimed the job, rushing out through another doorway. The tall woman turned back to Itchy and queried softly, “May I ask your name?”

“Uh,” the satyr creaked. He cleared his throat, replied, “It’s Itchy.”

 

     “Itchy?” the woman tilted her head, quirked her eyebrow just slightly. “Well…Nice to meet you, Itchy. My name is Patience, and these are my sisters.” She gestured to the woman around her, who waved and smiled back. She went on, “You will learn their names in time, I’m sure. For now, let’s get you clean and ready for lunch. We were all about to sit down for our meal anyway.”

 

     Itchy reluctantly followed her through another doorway, where the vines continued to spread and light up the corridors. Everywhere he looked there were motifs of flowers, moons, and peacocks. They embellished tapestries and paintings and carvings, and they were even stained into the windows.

 

     They entered a smaller room of smooth glazed tiles. There were wooden stalls against one wall with pails on the floor, similar to the bathroom at the tavern—only much cleaner, Itchy thought. Against the opposite wall was a ceramic wash tub. Itchy froze when he laid eyes on it.

 

     “I will send someone to fetch water and you can wash here,” the woman explained. “There is plenty of soap in the cabinet over there and clean rags in the—”

 

     Itchy’s teeth began to chatter. Beads of sweat glistened on his brow as he backed against the wall. He stared at the tub as if it were an open maw ready to swallow him whole.

 

     “What’s wrong? Are you alright?” Patience queried. Itchy closed his eyes tightly and shook his head.

“N-no baths,” he stammered. “I can’t. I-I can’t.”

“No? Why ever not?”

“’Cause…” Itchy paused. He knew the next words out of his mouth would sound foolish, but he let them loose anyway. “’Cause the water might pull me under and choke me.”

 

     Patience furrowed her brow. She looked at him as he were an abstract painting, replied slowly, “I see. Well, I assure you that’s never happened before. At least not here. All the water that passes through our halls is purified by magic, so you have nothing to fear.”

 

     The satyr shook his head again, harder this time. “No! I can’t! I’m sorry, I can’t!” With that, he turned and hurried out of the bathroom. He rushed down the hall, aimless and frightened, until he found a little alcove for coats and cloaks. He ducked inside and hid there, drawing his knees to his chest.

 

     His lungs fought for air and his body just wouldn’t stop shaking. There was too much inside his head, so much that it made him dizzy. His chest was heavy with sadness, with pain and grief. He missed Mr. Sarfeesha. He missed Adel and Iriana. He didn’t know this place or these people and he only wanted to go home!

 

     But there was no home to go back to anymore. He had truly been abandoned.

 

     “Itchy?” he heard Patience’s voice call. Somehow she found him with ease, and now she was kneeling beside the alcove. She pushed some cloaks aside and exposed him, curled in on himself as he whimpered. He’d never felt so pathetic.

 

     “You must be terrified,” she said quietly. “I can’t imagine what you’ve been through out there. But I promise you that this is a safe place. My sisters and I follow the teachings of Karenza, and she preaches only love. There is no violence, no danger under this roof. You will not be mistreated here.”

 

     “I just wanna go home,” Itchy sniffled, tears and mucus running down his face. “But I can’t ‘cause it’s gone ‘cause Adel sold it ‘cause he hates me and—”

Patience raised a palm and hushed him, “Shhh, child, it’s alright.”

“No, it isn’t! My Ba-Ba’s dead and my Grappa’s dead, and nobody loves me!”

 

     The woman’s expression hardened, looking pained as he sobbed before her. She reached out and touched his grimy shoulder. After a long silence she said, “I noticed you have a lute with you. Do you play?”

 

     The satyr tried to calm his sobs. He took in deep, shuddering breaths as he pulled the instrument off his back and showed her the cracked neck. “I’m not very good,” he explained. “My Grappa gave it to me a long time ago. But now it’s broken, see? I broke it ‘cause I’m stupid!”

 

     The tears threatened to return. Patience smiled at him and replied, “Ah, everyone gets clumsy sometimes. That doesn’t look too bad to me. In fact, I’m sure one of the sisters could fix that for you, good as new.”

 

     The satyr wiped his nose on the back of his hand. “Really?”

“Really,” Patience told him, then stood up and beckoned him towards her. “Come, let’s take it to Melody. She’s fixed my lyre for me more than once. My poor lyre—I’m a bit of a butterfingers myself.” She grinned and wiggled her fingers in the air.

 

     The tiniest smile pulled at Itchy’s lips. “Okay,” he said, and finally stepped out of the alcove.

 

     Soon lunch was ready, but Itchy still hadn’t washed. He wasn’t clean enough to sit at the table, the sisters decided. But it was a clear day in late spring, so they decided to take their plates outdoors and eat with him there. The garden was a lush and scenic little place, with a babbling pond in the corner where colorful fish glimmered.

 

     Itchy couldn’t appreciate the beauty of that pond. It only made him nervous, so he sat on a rock in the opposite corner of the garden. Stone walls stretched high above and enclosed the space completely. Itchy inspected his plate, cautiously tasted the foreign meal before him.

 

     There was a long, orange thing on his plate. It crunched between his teeth and had no flavor. It sat beside some kind of green mash drenched in sauce and a piece of spicy bread. Itchy picked up the orange thing and presented it to Patience, sitting beside him. She was not eating. In fact, none of the tall, pink-haired women were eating.

 

     “Um, what’s this thing?” he asked.

Patience shot him a strange look and replied, “Why, that’s a carrot! Have you never seen a carrot before?”

 

     Itchy quirked his brow. “This isn’t a carrot! Carrots are soft and they’re shaped like little cookies.”

“When they’re boiled and sliced, perhaps. So you’ve never in your life seen a fresh carrot…” the woman turned, shaking her head in disapproval.

 

     Itchy argued, “No, they’re fresh! Sometimes I ate ‘em right out of the can!”

Now several of the sisters were looking at him. Patience pointed to Itchy’s plate and told him, “Everything on your plate was grown right here in our garden. Some of the sisters practice botanical magic, you see. As long as you’re with us you shall eat nothing from a _can_.”

 

     “But I like yams!”

“We grow yams.”

“You can’t grow a yam! You buy them at the market!” Itchy told her, looking utterly bewildered. Patience chuckled, though the sound was thick with pity.

 

*

 

     Itchy sat in the corridor and strummed his broken lute. He waited outside a door, for Patience was on the other side talking to the High Priestess. He heard their voices speaking back and forth for what felt like ages, but they were too muffled to make out. Finally the door opened and the two stepped out.

 

     The High Priestess was the same kind of creature as Patience. She was a towering woman with deep brown skin and pink hair that coiled like springs, arcing in a halo around her head. Like Patience she wore a long silken gown, but hers was white in color.

 

     Patience stood by the door while the High Priestess approached Itchy. She kneeled in front of him and asked, “How are you feeling, child?”

Itchy shrugged, mumbled as he plucked his lute, “Scared. And kinda sad. And um, kinda sick too.”

The High Priestess let out a sigh and nodded.

 

     Then she stood up and told him, “We do not usually do this kind of thing. But in your case, young Itchy, I feel we have little choice. You have come to us in such a pitiful state, it pains my heart to think of you rotting away in some orphanage. I’m sure you don’t need to be told this, but…Well, we are aware that society is not kind to people like you.”

 

     Itchy cocked his head. “Kids?”

The High Priestess paused. “Er, no. _Satyrs_ , Itchy. Especially a satyr as vulnerable as yourself. I’ve decided it would be best to take you into our custody. We will do everything in our power to ensure that you’re cared for properly.”

 

     Patience stepped forward and added, “We cannot force you to stay, of course. You must decide if this is something you want, otherwise we will think of another solution.”

 

     Itchy furrowed his brow. He sat in silence for a long moment, turning everything over in his head. These women used a lot of big fancy words, but they did seem kind. He didn’t feel threatened by them, not like some of the patrons at the tavern.

 

     So he decided, “I wanna stay with you. You guys are really nice to me.”

The women glanced at eachother and smiled. “Then we are blessed with your company,” said Patience.

 

*

 

     Life at the church was very different than life at the tavern.

 

     At the tavern, Itchy just wiped tables and mopped blood and vomit all day. Once in a while Mr. Sarfeesha would teach him something, but there was so little time to learn when patrons kept trashing the place. When he wasn’t cleaning, he was fetching inventory from the market and hauling heavy loads around.

 

     Itchy hadn’t cleaned anyone’s mess since he arrived at the church. Everyone was supposed to clean up after themselves here. The air smelled of flowers rather than smoke. The church was never loud, there was no alcohol to be found, and no one ever shouted or hit eachothe.

 

     And Itchy could hardly stand it.

 

     There was nothing homey or familiar about this place. Even after a year it all felt so alien. He just couldn’t shake the feeling that he didn’t belong among these graceful, charitable, kindly souls. He was not only the sole male here, but the filthiest and most pathetic one they could ask for.

 

     The sisters tried to get Itchy to bathe. Oh, how they tried and tried. It seemed his fears ran deep to the very pit of his being, and nothing they could do or say changed that. Still, Patience refused to quit on him. She brewed an aromatic paste that he slathered on his skin every few days. After it hardened, it cracked away and took the grime with it.

 

     It wasn’t a perfect solution, but Itchy was in much better shape than he was a month ago. Melody fixed his lute, good as new just like Patience said. She gave him lessons in the evenings when the sisters all played music together. They sang hymns to honor their beloved Karenza, and by now Itchy knew most of them by heart.

 

     Patience took it upon herself to give Itchy a basic education. The other sisters made their attempts, but they soon realized that he was _slow_ indeed. Reading did not come easy. Mathematics did not come easy. The only thing that came easily to Itchy was frustration, and before long he had frustrated the sisters too.

 

     All but Patience, for she hadn’t earned her name for nothing. She was determined to see the boy grow up happy and healthy. And all the while, Itchy seemed to be doing everything in his power to resist that.

 

     The dirty, dangerous streets of Taybiya felt more like home to him. So during the day, Itchy left to cause trouble and scrounge coins any way he could. He took his coins straight to the black market by the creek, and there a vendor had no qualms about selling him alcohol.

 

     The sisters were powerless to stop Itchy from leaving. By the third time he’d come home drunk, spewing and urinating all over their halls, the pressure was on Patience to whip him into shape. So today, she asked him to come with her on a “special quest in a faraway land”. The boy’s interest was piqued.

 

     He joined Patience and four other sisters in their horse-drawn wagon. For most of the year, they said, the peninsula that joined the continents of Noalen and Serkel was under the sea. But in summer the water receded, and that meant they could cross into the Serkel Desert.

 

     The journey took two weeks, and the things Itchy had seen in that time would stay with him for the rest of his life. They passed through villages that sat high in the trees, villages made entirely of mud, villages both compact and sprawling.

 

     They met peoples with more arms than Mr. Sarfeesha, peoples with gills and scales like fish. There was a tribe of people with cow-heads that they couldn’t speak to because they only made the sounds of a cow. There were even people who could fit in the palm of Itchy’s hand, who lived in teeny little mushroom-houses in the forest.

 

     Itchy had feared them all, at least until the sisters introduced themselves. It seemed no matter where they went, the Order of Karenza’s Love was met with respect. The sisters made their way south until they finally arrived in a place called Yerim-Mor Capital. It was the biggest city in Yerim-Mor Kingdom, Itchy was told.

 

     But when he arrived, he couldn’t say he was impressed. Half the city was in ruins, the other half just barely holding together. It was built around a reeking river that ran thick with sewage, trash, and corpses. The stench put Itchy to shame, and the poverty made Taybiya look like a Matuzan palace district.

 

     The peasants truly had nothing but the clothes on their backs, and some lacked even that. They were peoples of all types—commoners, fae, and gaians alike. All of them were sickly and emaciated, desperately wandering their slums in search of scraps.

 

     The sisters’ wagon stopped at another House of Karenza on the outskirts of the city. Itchy knew now that the tall women were called “minervae”. They were titan nymphs, and that meant they were very powerful and magical. There were minervae at this church too. They regarded their foreign sisters with excitement, invited them in and treated them as family.

 

     Together they began loading the wagon with sacks of grain. Itchy dropped another sack on the pile, and then he had an epiphany. He turned to Patience and said, “I know! What if the peasants use magic? They can grow lots of food like we do!”

 

     Patience offered a doleful smile. “That’s exactly what they used to do in the old days,” she explained. “But magic must be taught, and I’m afraid education has become a luxury here. It’s a luxury so few of them can afford anymore.”

 

     The satyr furrowed his brow. “How come? How’d they lose all their money?”

“There was a war many years ago. It killed a lot of Morites and wounded their kingdom terribly. They call it the ‘Gold River War’.”

 

     Patience loaded another sack of grain onto the wagon. She pushed the loose hair out of her eyes and went on, “It’s all very complicated. But all you must know is that these people are in need. We are in a position to give, so we give to them. It is Karenza’s will.”

 

     Once the wagon was loaded, Itchy clung to the side as the sisters drove towards the slums. Peasants turned their way, watching the grain with wide, desperate eyes. In minutes, a chattering crowd was surrounding the wagon. The horses whinnied and twitched with anxiety as the peasants grew louder. They pushed and shoved, grasped at the wagon, some brandishing sticks and bottles at the sisters.

 

     Itchy scrambled on top of the grain sacks, trembling in fear. “Patience! They’re gonna kill us!” he shrieked. Just then, an entrancing melody rang through the crowd. Each note echoed off itself, unearthly and haunting. The peasants’ noise died to silence. Their weapons lowered, then dropped from their hands.

 

     The satyr’s gaze flicked to the driver’s seat. One of the Morite sisters was strumming a magical tune on her lyre, singing softly a hymn in a foreign language.

 

Itchy looked back at the mob. The people were calmed, blearily gazing up at the lyre. Patience crawled into the back of the wagon and smiled at Itchy.

 

     “Try not to judge them for their behavior. They are desperate in ways we cannot imagine,” she told him. Then she lifted a bag of grain and handed it to a woman nearby. The woman smiled, tipped her head in gratitude as she took it. She walked away in a haze, stumbling as if intoxicated by the hymn.

 

     Itchy followed the minervaes’ example. He handed off another bag and asked, “What happens when the grain runs out? Do we have to come back and give them more?”

 

     Patience sighed. “I suppose we will, at least for another generation or two. But food is not all we offer them on our mission. We will be holding classes this week, and we will teach them as much as we can about botanical magic.”

 

     “So they can grow their own food?”

“That’s right. Just like the old days, before this terrible war poisoned the river.” She passed off another bag and went on, “In those days, the plants didn’t need water to grow. The people used magic instead, and forced crops to sprout in this dry old desert.”

 

     Another bag left her hands. “Perhaps the crops didn’t need water, but the people still did. When Matuzu Kingdom poisoned the river, the people had no clean water to drink. And when they became sick, they lost their powers.”

 

     Itchy scratched his head. He looked out at the thousands of faces before him, each one gaunt, desperate, and entranced into civility. “That’s not fair,” he decided.

“No,” the minervae replied, “it’s not.”

 

*

 

     The mission at Yerim-Mor Capital was Itchy’s first, but it would not be his last. Over the next few years, he joined the sisters as they helped the needy all over Serkel.

 

     Itchy pinned a map to his bedroom wall. Each time he returned from a mission, he drew an “x” on the places he’d been. He’d just returned from the Midland Savannah a few days ago. The mission wasn’t fun—none of them were—but they were the only times Itchy felt competent.

 

     All he had to do was pass out food and supplies. The sisters did all the hard stuff. Yet each time he did, his heart swelled with pride because he had proved to someone that he wasn’t worthless.

 

     There was no time to wander off, nowhere to find trouble when he didn’t know the area, and hardly any way to make a jackass of himself. But now he was back in Southriver Wood, back at this home that still didn’t feel like home. He knew this dump like the back of his hands, and he knew just how to get those hands on all the questionable things he desired.

 

     The bootleg alcohol, the illegal medicines, the prostitutes and pornography all flowed freely through his life, for the only way to stop him was to physically restrain him, and the sisters felt that was not their place to treat him like a caged animal. All they could do was educate him. With hope, he would use that knowledge to make better decisions.

 

     Now Itchy was 17 years old. It was clear by the way his horns, his beard, his body had grown that he was nearing adulthood. With that knowledge came discussion as the sisters tried to decide their next move.

 

     Karenza had plenty of male followers. Though in rural, uneducated areas like Taybiya, her houses of worship were often segregated by sex for cultural reasons. Itchy came to their doorstep as a child, but he was clearly a child no longer. At least not physically.

 

     Should an exception be made for him? Should they transfer him to another house—full of strangers who may not accept all his many quirks and faults?

 

     That week, Itchy made the decision for them.

 

     He spent all morning busking in the street for gold. When he earned enough coins, he traded them in for moonshine and got so drunk he couldn’t remember his name. He couldn’t remember his manners either, and by nightfall he was jailed for being a public nuisance.

 

     The night was a blur. He remembered only bits and pieces of his time behind bars. But the sisters must have bailed him out again, for he awoke back in his bed covered in vomit, sheets soaked with urine, eye swollen shut with a fist-sized bruise on his socket.

 

     Itchy rolled out of bed with a miserable groan. He half-stumbled, half-crawled into the bathroom and scrubbed himself clean with a wet rag. Or as “clean” as only a wet rag could manage.

 

     His hair was trimmed short these days, not unruly like it had been years ago. He cringed as he dipped his hands in a bowl of water and swiped at his locks. The water made his skin crawl, like thousands of worms squirming against his flesh.

 

     His beard was a patchy, filthy mess on his face. It grew only along his jaw, for satyrs never grew hair above their lips. He gave it a careful trim, changed into clean brown priest robes, and finally he was ready to present himself to the sisters. As if he wasn’t a walking disaster. As if he could somehow atone for his behavior last night.

 

     Itchy stepped into the sitting room with all its vines and its horrible, horrible pool that threatened to suck him in every time he passed it. There the sisters gathered like usual. They were chattering away until he stepped through the doorway, and then they fell silent. They refused to look his way at all.

 

     The satyr hunched his shoulders, gaze dropping to his hooves. Maybe it was in his best interest to just turn around, crawl out the window and come back later. He heard Patience’s voice speak out to him, “Itchy, come here at once!”

 

     So much for making his escape. Sheepishly he crossed the room, stopping before Patience. She towered over him with her arms crossed tightly over her chest.

“’Morning, ladies,” he creaked. The sisters scowled.

 

     “It’s well after high sun,” Patience told him sharply. “And I take it you remember nothing about yesterday?”

 

     Itchy closed his eyes, let out a heavy sigh. “What did I do?” he muttered. Patience raised her hand and began listing incidents on her fingers.

“First,” she began, “you purchased an illicit substance and consumed it in _gross_ excess. You were then jailed for public intoxication and belligerence.”

 

     She raised a second finger. “Second, you disrespected our property when you vomited up and down the halls, urinated on our tapestries, tore up our gardens, vandalized our paintings, and destroyed our bust of Lady Karenza.”

 

     A third finger came up. “Third, you made lewd comments and utterly filthy gestures to Melody and the High Priestess.”

 

     Itchy glanced at Melody, then the High Priestess sitting across from her. They regarded him with hard stares of contempt. He winced as Patience lifted a fourth finger. It just went on and on, it seemed.

 

     “ _Fourth_ , you thought it quite amusing to untie the back of my dress, exposing me to all my poor sisters as I tried to guide you to bed safely. You then ruined said dress when you vomited on it.”

 

     “Patience, I’m really—” Itchy began, but she interrupted.

“ _Fifth_! Despite how we’ve asked you to moderate yourself—or better yet, to abstain completely from alcohol—you chose to disrespect our wishes yet again.” The minervae sighed, dropped her head in her hands.

 

     After a heavy pause, she lifted her head and continued, “We have given you _everything_ , Itchy. Everything that you could possibly need to be happy, to be healthy, to succeed—and you throw our efforts away like they mean nothing to you! And all I ask is…” She blinked, her pink eyes sparkling with tears. “ _Why_?”

 

     Itchy brought his hands to his head, raking his fingers through his hair. His face felt hot, stomach twisting like a braid. “I don’t know!” he cried out. “I don’t know why I do the stupid, dumb things I do! I really don’t, Patience!” His voice cracked with panic.

 

     He turned to the other sisters. “I’m really sorry! I-I’m disgusted with myself too, I’m telling you! I don’t want to do these things, I…They just… _Happen_.”

 

     “They happen because you allow them to, Itchy,” Melody told him flatly. “Every day we have decisions to make. And quite frequently, you choose to disrespect yourself and everyone around you. This can _not_ go on.”

 

     The satyr turned back to Patience, eyes wide and pleading. The way she looked at him, with sadness, anger, and disappointment fighting in her eyes…

 

     He had seen that look before. He knew exactly what was coming next. Itchy dropped to his knees before the minervae and threw his arms around her legs. “No! Please don’t! Please, Patience, I’ll do anything! Please, please, don’t do this to me!”

 

     “I’m sorry, my child,” she told him somberly. “But it has already been decided. We have given you all we can, and now your time with us is done. We are doing you no favors by sparing you from the consequences of your own actions time and time again. It’s time for you to spread your wings and find your own way in the world.”

 

     “ _No_! Patience!” Itchy’s shouts sank into sobs. He spilled tears and mucus upon the minervae’s dress as he carried on, “You can’t leave me, you can’t! You’re all I have! Nobody loves me! W-what am I supposed to do without you? I love you, Patience! I need you, don’t go away!”

 

     Dropping her hands to her sides, Patience let out a long, sullen sigh. Slowly she kneeled to the floor with the satyr and pulled him into an embrace. He embraced her back, squeezing her with all his might so that she may never leave.

 

     “I’m sorry,” he told her. “I’m sorry I’m a disgusting mess! Please don’t hate me!”

Patience planted a kiss on his forehead, replied softly, “Oh, my Itchy. I could never hate you.” She lifted his chin, looked into his eyes with a strained smile. “We minervae can peer into the soul, and in you I see no hate, nor malice. You are a beautiful person.”

 

     She paused, glancing at her sisters. Their expressions had softened. Then she turned back to Itchy and added, “But you are a _troubled_ person. And despite all our magic, our wisdom, our power…The only one who can conquer those troubles is you.”

 

     “But _how_?” the satyr blurted. He gestured vaguely towards the hall. “You have magic books that know everything! You can see the future! You’re _immortal_! And you’re telling me you can’t fix me?”

 

     Patience dried his tears and replied, “I can see the nature of your soul. I can determine your intentions. I can even play my magic lyre and _force_ you to behave if I wish.”

 

     She smiled. “But that only treats the symptom, doesn’t it? A sack of grain for the day, so to speak. Your troubles are a weed in an otherwise lovely garden. Only you can pull up that root, lest it choke your pretty flowers.”

 

*

 

     For all the years he spent at her house of worship, Itchy had never seen the divine Karenza in person. He heard the stories, he sang the hymns, he’d done her bidding…But after all this time, he was not convinced she existed at all.

 

     “She hides away from the Divine of Hate,” the sisters told him, “up in her floating palace high in the skies. She cannot touch her peoples’ hearts directly anymore, so we act as her agents of Love and Light.”

 

     It all sounded like convenient excuses to Itchy. There was no love in this world—at least not for him. The priestesses sent him away with a heavy pack of supplies and enough gold to secure a few months in an inn while he found work. But once again, to no one’s surprise, Itchy sabotaged his own success.

 

     Did he really need to pay for a roof? He didn’t think so, for he found a quiet alleyway that was sheltered from the rain. Here he stored his pack of supplies in a barrel while he headed to the black market near the creek. The priestesses found his stash of booze and pornography before he left and destroyed every bit of it.

 

     “These awful things impair your judgment. They corrupt your perception of yourself and the world,” Patience told him. “You are better off without them.”

 

     Itchy didn’t believe her, or perhaps just didn’t care. The first half of his gold went straight into replacing his booze and pornography. And when he returned to the alley to find his pack had been stolen, the other half went into replacing his supplies.

 

     Now he hadn’t a coin left to his name, so he supposed it was time to find work. But everywhere Itchy went, he was turned away. Not for his drinking, his stench, or his illiteracy, but for his species alone.

 

     “I don’t even _serve_ satyrs, much less hire ‘em,” said the butcher.

“Why would I hire a satyr? So you can rape my daughters _and_ my goats?” said the farmer.

“Your kind steals from me every day. You people are a disease,” said the grocer.

 

     Itchy left that grocer feeling so sour, he swiped a raw yam out of spite. The grocer spotted his bad deed and just before he made it out the door, two burly stockers were pummeling him bloody. “Get outta here! Go back to the forest where you belong, you animal!” the grocer hollered.

 

     So Itchy did.

 

     In a drunken fit of rage, the satyr tore off his clothes and went bounding off, out of the streets of Taybiya and into the depths of Southriver Wood. The booze passed through him, the pornography melted in the rain, his supplies were stolen yet again. Now all he had left was the old lute on his back.

 

     A lute that, after all the years of practice and lessons, he could still barely play. But the object was dear to him nonetheless. It held happy memories that no amount of alcohol or brain damage could rob him of. Itchy always kept it close, strapped tightly to his back at all times as he ventured through the unknown wilderness.

 

     He couldn’t be more out of his element. The wild was just as foreign to him as all the strange kingdoms he visited with the priestesses. But this time around, they were not here to guide him. For the first time in his life, he was truly on his own.

 

*

 

     Perhaps he should have followed the roads. It was too late for that now, for Itchy was far off the beaten path from Southriver Wood. The canopy of trees above was so thick, he couldn’t even tell the sun’s position. Was he going north? East? Who knew? Not he as he finally sobered up and began regretting his decisions.

 

     There was no one around him, at least that he could see. But somehow he still felt scrutinized, as if hundreds of eyes were watching him. The ridge of hair that extended down his spine stood on end. His skin prickled, his nerves tight. He knew deep down that he wasn’t really alone out here.

 

     The feeling only grew more intense until he couldn’t stand it anymore. Itchy stopped in a small clearing. Taking a seat on a mossy stone, he pulled the lute off his back and began to strum a soothing hymn.

 

     The notes were clumsy, but performance wasn’t the point. He’d forgotten the lyrics, so he simply hummed the tune to himself as he looked around at all the imposing trees, tried to gather his bearings.

 

     “ _Mother Karenza, Mother Karenza, it’s your wayward little Itchy_ …” he sang, which were certainly not the original lyrics.

 

     “… _and he’s gone and screwed his life up once again…_

_If you’re out there, he could really use a hand…_

_Mother Karenza, Mother Karenza, he ain’t never asked for nothing but_ —”

 

     His fingers stumbled over the notes. He sighed and sang on,

“ _Okay, maybe that’s a lie…_

_Come on, Karenza, don’t let him die…!”_

 

     Suddenly Itchy jumped, nearly slipped off the boulder when a giggle echoed through the trees. He froze, wide eyes darting about in search of the source. He realized it was not just one voice, but dozens upon dozens. They were coming from everywhere.

 

     The giggling was coming from…The trees? No, that couldn’t be, he thought. Until one of the trees before him began to crackle and whorl, and in seconds it was walking towards him.

 

     Itchy let out a shriek and brandished his lute at the creature. It—she—was feminine and humanoid in structure. She walked upon two legs, but those legs were encased in bark like long, wooden stilts.

 

     He thought the minervae were tall, but this woman was like a minervae standing on the shoulders of another. His eyes travelled up her body, all wrapped with bark, to her grinning face. Yellow eyes glowed above her brown lips. Sprouting from her head were long branches tipped with leaves. They rustled with her every step.

 

     She stopped before him and said, her voice like the low droning of bees, “I’ve never heard _that_ version of ‘Mother Karenza’ before.”

Itchy’s heart was hammering in his chest. After a pause, he managed a breathless reply, “W-who are you? _What_ are you? You’re not gonna hurt me, right? Trust me, lady, I’m not worth it!”

 

     The woman laughed. Itchy jumped again as a swell of other voices laughed with her. He turned his head and gasped in horror when he saw all the cinders glowing in the trees. But they were not cinders at all. They were eyes, and there were hundreds of them all around.

 

     The tree-woman before him placed her hands on her hips. “My name is Elma, and surely you’re joking? Don’t you know a dryad when you see one?”

“Oh! A dryad!” Itchy’s brows arced as he pointed a finger at her. “The priestesses told me about you guys, but I’ve never seen you in person. You’re, uh…Taller than I thought you’d be.”

 

     “A satyr who’s never laid eyes on a dryad…” Elma mused. Some leaves flitted down as she shook her head. The laughter ran around her once again. She went on, “I take it you’re not from around here. Playing that fancy instrument, your physique so soft and spongy…”

 

     Itchy glanced down at his body, no longer burdened by clothes. “I’m not _spongy_!” he argued. Elma laughed.

“You will not last long out here, satyr,” she told him. “Where is it that you’re trying to go? Perhaps my sisters and I can point you in the right direction.”

 

     Taking a deep breath, Itchy nearly said “Taybiya”. But the word was caught in his throat. Did he really want to go back to that place? With all its miserable memories and terrible influences? Perhaps if he went somewhere foreign instead, he could finally put all that dysfunction behind him.

 

     He cleared his throat and said, “Anywhere but Taybiya. What a horrible dump, that place! Do you know somewhere better I could go?”

Elma chuckled, “Aw, Taybiya isn’t so bad. But if that’s how you feel, a _domestic_ satyr such as yourself might fare well in Folkvar territory. Woodborne is closest to here.” She paused, her expression falling slightly. “However, it is no easy journey. You must cross the Bluerock River to get there.”

 

     Itchy cocked an eyebrow. “What’s wrong with the river?”

“Oh, nothing. It’s a beautiful, healthy river. It’s what lies north of it that you must fear.”

“And that is…?”

“Kelvingyard.”

 

     The dryads around them broke out into murmurs. Itchy drew his ears back and muttered, “Oh. I’ve heard of that place…Lots of the peasants I met escaped from there.”

“It’s a pit of evil and despair,” Elma spat. “So many Morites pass through here, trying to find a better life in Folkvar lands. So few ever make it.” She frowned. “I would hate to see another one fall into slavery. Especially a follower of Karenza.”

 

     “Oh, I don’t really—” Itchy began. Then he thought better of it, dismissed the subject. “Nevermind. Look, is there anywhere else a satyr can go around here? Someplace where people won’t treat me like shit on their shoes? Uh, pardon the language.” He cleared his throat.

 

     Elma’s frown remained. She thought for a moment, then sighed, “A satyr? Afraid not. Taybiya is as civilized as it gets without crossing the river or the peninsula. And if you cross the peninsula, you’ll have to cross the desert. I wouldn’t expect you to make it.”

 

     “I wouldn’t either,” the satyr grumbled. He slung the lute on his back once more, rose to his hooves. “Great. Thanks anyway.”

 

     The dryads watched as he wandered off deeper into the forest. One by one their yellow eyes began to close again. Elma shot him one last look before he returned to her post.

 

*

 

     Itchy knew that only a lifetime of loneliness and vagrancy awaited him in Taybiya. It beckoned him back like a bad habit, so he had to do everything in his power to resist. It was the devil he knew. A comfortable, familiar kind of misery.

 

     Satyrs didn’t belong in civilized society anyway, or so he’d been told a thousand times by a thousand people. Every satyr he met in Taybiya was an aimless drunk who thieved and whored to get their next drink. Itchy had done his fair share of thieving and whoring, but in the forest there was nothing to steal and no coin to whore for.

 

     Perhaps that’s why his people belonged out here, he thought. This wild life is what he’d been meant for all along, so no wonder he couldn’t make it in the civilized world! It was never made for him in the first place.

 

     Itchy picked up a skill or two from his time with the priestesses. On their long journeys around the world, they taught him how to strike up a fire. It took hours to finally spark a flame in his firepit, and by that time he was too hungry to jump for joy.

 

     The bountiful forests provided. Itchy brought an armful of berries and mushrooms back to his little campsite. Not long after he finished them all, his skin broke out into angry red hives. His stomach twisted and churned with such intensity, all he could do was lie in the grass and writhe until morning.

 

     He didn’t remember ever falling asleep. But he must have, for he awoke beside a dead fire under the pouring rain. Itchy scrambled to his hooves and ran about in a panic. He searched for somewhere—anywhere—to take shelter. He spotted a burrow tunneling down into the great roots of a tree and he dove straight into it without a thought.

 

     Cobwebs tangled around his face as he did. He felt the skittering legs of spiders travel down his arms, his back, into his hair. Cursing and flailing, Itchy frantically tried to brush them off. But spiders were not his only company in this little den. He heard a low chittering and squinted deeper into the darkness.

 

     In an instant he was being attacked by a furry animal. He couldn’t see it, couldn’t identify it—only knew that it was black and white and very angry. The satyr bolted out of the den and bounded through the forest, thrashing through layers and layers of sticks and branches.

 

     The rain pelted him all the while, rinsing the blood from his bites. There was nowhere to go. There was no one to help him. Mud squelched beneath Itchy as he dropped to his knees. “Elma! Karenza! Someone! Please…!” he cried up to the sky. It flashed bright then, a clap of thunder following.

 

     Startled, he crawled up to the base of a great oak. He curled up in its tangle of roots and quivered with cold, fear, and hunger. He had never felt so helpless in all his life. There he stayed for what felt like an eternity, trying to ignore all the water washing over him like an oppressive shroud.

 

     Eventually the thunder stopped. The rain followed it on its way out, but Itchy was still lying on the forest floor in its aftermath. His nerves were shot and he could hardly move. He just wanted to sink into the earth and become soil, for life as dirt was surely better than this.

 

     After the chaos of the storm came gentle morning birdsong. A white fog drifted through the trees as the sun shined brightly above. Itchy heard great, striding footsteps crunching dead leaves behind him. He grunted as he rolled over, saw none other than Elma the dryad smiling down at him.

 

     Her droning voice was like music to his ears when she said, “How do you feel about Taybiya today, satyr?”

 


	3. REVEL

### [CHAPTER 3: REVEL]

 

     _AUTUMN, YEAR 5995_

 

     Defeated, Itchy trudged back to Taybiya. There he remained for days, into weeks, into months, into years.

 

     No one would sell or even rent property to him. So he spent those years sleeping wherever he could, whether it be alleyways, trash bins, or chicken coops. He thieved, he whored, he busked with his lute, he did whatever he could to get coin in his hands. He traded those coins for alcohol, and the cycle repeated.

 

     Every day, for over 15 years.

 

     Now Itchy was 33 years old, though all the abuse and hardship in his life made him appear older. Every day his hairline receded a little more, so thin above his horns that his scalp was exposed. Dark bags lined his weary eyes, teeth chipped and yellowed.

 

     He couldn’t be bothered to cut his mangy hair, and now it had grown well passed his shoulders. He kept it tied in a sad excuse for a braid. His beard too was dirty and unkempt, the hair so unhealthy that it managed to trim itself after a certain point. The strands would snap and break away just like that atop his scalp—as if it were jumping the sinking ship that was his body.

 

     And that was just the outside. Itchy didn’t like to think about what must be happening under his skin, down in his worm-riddled guts and pickled blood. Drinking was the only thing that soothed his upset stomach, his aching teeth, and his breaking heart.

 

     At least he still had his old lute, as worn and broken as it was. It had become a part of him, always strapped to his back for safekeeping. He could also say that he finally made some friends. Rather, other vagrants who tolerated his stench and behavior only because they were in no better shape themselves. Not all of them were satyrs either.

 

     Itchy played games with these misfits, drank and sang with them, thieved alongside them on larger heists, and even sat in jail with them more than once.

 

     But perhaps “friends” was a strong word, for there was no loyalty or trust between them. When times got desperate, every one of them was quick to backstab eachother for scraps. It was best to spend winter apart. And every spring when they met up again, at least one of them would be missing. Lost to the cold, starvation, alcohol poisoning, or another one of the many hazards they faced day to day.

 

     It was an unusually warm autumn afternoon. The sun was hanging high in the sky, blasting Taybiya with its unforgiving rays. Itchy and his friends-but-not-friends gathered together under the creek bridge, hiding in the cool shade of its arc. The creek between them was choked with empty bottles, animal bones, and dirty old linens.

 

     Itchy knocked back the last of his mead, then tossed the bottle aside and went on, “…Okay, okay, so here’s what _really_ happened: Me ‘n Bamtam was scopin’ that fancy place up by the orchards...”

 

     He tipped his head towards the burly troll sitting beside him. “…We found a back door and there’s a cute little flap on it. So we’re thinking, ‘aw, they got a little guard puppy to snap at our ankles this time around, ain’t that cute!’”

 

     The vagrants laughed and Itchy held up his hands, continued, “Anyway, so I’m bustin’ my knuckles trying to pick this bastard of a lock, and Bamtam turns to me and says, ‘Hey Itchman, why don’t you just squeeze your skinny butt through the doggy-door?’”

 

     Itchy reached for another bottle beside him, uncorked it as he continued, “I’m thinking sure, what’s the worst that could happen? So I’m squirmin' like a worm, trying to get my head through, and my damn horns is in the way! But finally I got it, and just as I get my shoulders in I see these glowing, green little eyes starin’ at me in the dark…”

 

     He circled his fingers around his eyes for effect. “…Then bam! Before I know it there’s a raccoon gnawin’ on my head! I mean, really! Who keeps a raccoon? Big fat fucker too, wearin’ a little sweater! He’s got me by the ear, just goin’ to town on me, and I’m screamin’ like a banshee trying to pull my head back through the door. But my horns was in the way and Bamtam’s yankin’ my legs off trying to get me out. Then he takes off runnin’ when the old man showed up in his underoos with a broadsword.”

 

     His small audience broke out into wheezing laughter. Itchy struggled to finish the story through his own laughter, “Wait, it gets better! Anyway, so these two shit-head mercenary goons finally show up. They had to hack the door apart with an axe to get me out, and then as they’re taking me to jail, I butted the biggest, ugliest one right in his big ugly nose—”

 

     “Ah, yes, I remember that!” said a stranger. Itchy turned, eyes rounding when he saw the three armored humans standing before him. The man in the center was fair of skin and massively muscled, with short hair the color of dry summer grass. The thinner, taller man to his right had darker skin, dressed in a facewrap that obscured all but his eyes.

 

     The third man was short, pale, and round. His long, yellow hair was pulled into several messy braids, and so too was his beard. The man in the center crossed his arms, spoke to Itchy flatly, “And after the big, ugly goons threw you behind bars, they went out for drinks and had a lovely, lawful night out with their reward money.”

 

     Itchy’s shoulders sank. “Aw, shit,” he sighed. “There’s _three_ of you now?”

The man smiled disingenuously. “Why, yes! The Freelance Good Guys is a growing company, Mr. Itchy, all thanks to delinquents like you.” He then drew his sword from its scabbard and pointed it at the satyr.

 

     “However, this will be the last coin we earn for your capture. Because today you’re not going to Taybiya jail—you’re going straight to _prison_ all the way up in Folkvar Capital. Don’t bother packing your things, you won’t need them. Now come along peacefully, as I have no qualms about getting rough with you after what you did to my nose.” The man scowled. “That was a gift from my mother, you cad. And it’s _still_ crooked…”

 

     The vagrants exchanged anxious glances. Slowly they began to creep away from the bridge as Itchy rose to his hooves, held up his palms and tried to explain himself. “Woah, woah! Prison? Mr. Atlas, come on! I don’t know what you think I did, but it can’t be _that_ bad!”

 

     “That’s Captain Atlas to you,” the man told him sharply. “And it’s not _what_ you’ve done, it’s the _frequency_ at which you’ve done it. The mayor is offering us a fat incentive to keep you out of Taybiya for good. Lukas, the list?”

 

     The slim man in the facewrap dug through one of his pockets, then handed a slip of paper to Captain Atlas.

 

     The captain unfolded it and read aloud, “In the last year alone, you’ve committed thirty-three counts of public intoxication, thirty counts of disturbing the peace, twenty-five counts of petty theft, nineteen counts of prostitution, twelve counts of assault, two counts of burglary, and one count of bestiality.”

 

     Itchy waved his hands. “Okay, woah, that last one? I was _really_ drunk, and you know, goats look an awful lot like satyrs when—”

“Shut yer damn mouth, ya crusty, thievin’, goat-fecker!” barked the yellow-haired man.

 

     He pulled a pair of iron shackles off his belt and held them outward. “I don’t wanna hear another peep outta ya ‘till we get to the capital! Ya best get in these cuffs now, ‘cause it’s a long ride and I’m losin’ my patience already!”

 

     A silence passed between them. The three men stared Itchy down like dogs before a steak. The satyr turned back to the bridge, found that all his “friends” had suddenly disappeared. This was truly, uniquely bad. That much was clear.

 

     Finally Itchy raised his hands in defeat and sighed, “Alright, fellas. You got me. I’ve had a good run, but I know when I’m had. I’ll come peacefully.”

 

     Captain Atlas grinned. “That’s the smartest decision you’ve ever made,” he said.

The yellow-haired man looked disappointed when he grumbled, “Damn. I wanted to tackle him…”

“Wait,” Itchy began, “if I’m really goin’ away for good, can I say goodbye to someone first?”

“No,” the tall man barked.

 

     But Captain Atlas spoke over his cohort, said, “That depends. Who is it?”

Itchy pointed vaguely towards the street. “There’s a church on the other side of town. Order of Karenza? Those nice ladies in there took me in when I was just a kid, knockin’ on their door after my dear old Grappa died.”

 

     His face grew heavy with emotion, the sparkle of moisture in his eyes genuine. “Please, Captain. They raised me like their own. If you won’t do it for me, will you do it for them? They’ll get real worried if I just disappear without a trace.”

 

     “I’ve never heard of this _church_ ,” spat Lukas. “And if you’re telling the truth, then they did an absolutely _terrible_ job raising you.”

 

     “Lukas!” the captain scolded his cohort, then turned back to Itchy. His expression had softened, as did his tone. He sighed, “Well, I…I suppose there’s no harm in it. Come along, let’s make it quick. Like Glenvar said, the journey ahead of us will be a long one.”

 

     Itchy tipped his head in gratitude and stepped forward. Glenvar bound his wrists together while Lukas turned to the captain and said, “Evan, come on! This is obviously a trick!”

“We outnumber him three times over,” Evan replied. “I don’t know what you’re so worried about. We’ve locked this one up—how many times now? I’ve lost count.”

 

     “So have I…” grumbled Itchy. He followed the trio to their tawny old horse waiting in the street. Evan helped him onto the saddle and Lukas climbed on in front of him. Together they meandered through the winding, narrow streets of Taybiya as Itchy gave them bunk directions.

 

     “Take a left. No, wait, I mean right. Sorry, it’s been a while since I visited…” he said. All the while, he’d discreetly pulled a pin from his braid, using it to pick the lock on his shackles. It was a stubborn one, but he managed to keep the mercenaries wandering until finally, the shackles loosened.

 

     Lukas had lost his patience in that very moment. “How do you live in a place this long and have no idea where you’re going? Evan, let’s just leave! This fool’s jerking our chains around like we’re a bunch of mongrels!”

 

     “Hey, Lukas, listen. I’m real sorry,” said Itchy. I’m not trying to be a pain in the ass here…So let me get outta your hair!”

 

     Then the satyr wrenched his hands free from behind his back, used them to shove the mercenary off the horse. He fell against Glenvar and they both hit the ground in a heap. Evan had no time to react as the horse reared up in a panic, Itchy clutching its reigns tight.

 

     He kicked his hooves against its sides. With a loud, “Hiya!” Itchy knocked Evan over with the steed before bolting off down the road. A cloud of dust kicked up behind him in the dry heat, sending all three mercenaries into a blind coughing fit.

 

     “That rat bastard!” Lukas wheezed, the wind knocked from him in his fall. “I knew it! I told you, Evan! You never listen to me, you jackass!”

The captain struggled back to his feet. Rather, his foot and his peg leg.

 

     He waved the dust out of his face and groaned, “Fine, Lukas. You were so very, absolutely right. Just like you always are, all the time. Are you happy now?”

 

     “Our paycheck just rode away on our brand new horse! What do you think?” the thin man snapped.

Glenvar stood between them, looking sullen. He asked quietly, “Are we still havin’ a lovely, lawful time at the tavern tonight?”

 

     Evan sighed, shook his head. “No, Glen. Come on, let’s rent a wagon and see if we can’t catch him...Or at least get our horse back.”

 

*

 

     Going back was not an option. Not now, not a month from now, not ever again.

 

     The Freelance Good Guys passed through Taybiya constantly. Itchy had burned his bridges and now the town was much too hot. On the stolen horse he sped down the winding dirt road. He couldn’t read the signs. He could only glance at the position of the sun and keep going north.

 

     If what Elma said was true all those years ago, then he should eventually arrive at the Bluerock River. If he managed to sneak his way passed Kelvingyard, then he would find sanctuary in the Folkvar territory of Woodborne. At this point he had no choice and nothing to lose. He could die in the forest, he could die in prison, or he could die by the sword of some Evangeline slaver.

 

     Or maybe, just maybe, he could weasel his way out of this mess and make it to Woodborne unscathed. That was always the dream. Perhaps all this chaos was a blessing in disguise.

 

     The mercenaries were surely trying to track him down. Itchy didn’t expect a man like Evan Atlas to simply give up and call it a day. He would have to keep moving no matter what. Itchy didn’t intend to stop for anything, but the old horse could only take him so far.

 

     After some time the beast began to wheeze, slowing and slowing until it came to a stop. Itchy whipped the reigns and barked, “Hiya! Come on! Don’t quit on me now, ya lazy horse! _Hiya_!” He kicked his hooves against the animal’s sides. The horse was pushed to its limit and it would take no more.

 

     With a mighty bray, the horse reared up and stomped down, bucking the satyr from its back. He landed on the roadside with a grunt, shouting curses as his ill-gotten steed ran off down the trail. He scrambled back to his feet and chased it for some ways, stopped when he realized it was headed back towards Taybiya.

 

     It wasn’t worth it. It wasn’t worth losing progress on his journey, nor could he risk bumping into the mercenaries again. So Itchy turned and continued the journey on his own two hooves.

 

     Everything north of the river was alien to him. Most of the priestess’s work took them south around Serkel—places where hopeless poverty blighted the land like a disease. Evangeline Kingdom was very hostile, very suspicious of fae and gaians, Itchy was told. Only the human priestesses could get anything done there.

 

     And now he was on his way into the lion’s den, straight towards the heart of the Kelvingyard Slaving Company. He heard the horror stories time and time again. Kelvingyard was a city built around the continent’s largest prison.

 

     But that prison held not criminals. Inside were any and all peoples capable of wielding magic, captured and made slaves to Evangeline Kingdom.

 

     The “commoner’s kingdom”, they called it. The kingdom of humans, trolls, roshava, ogres, and dworfs; peoples with iron in their blood instead of magic.

 

     Itchy was capable of magic, he was told, but the priestesses refused to teach him a single spell. “The moment you open your vessel to the arcane,” said Patience, “iron will burn you as fire. Given all the time you spend behind iron bars…” and that was all the convincing he needed to drop the subject.

 

     Itchy pushed on for hours down the forest trail. Pulling the broken old lute from his back, he plucked discordant notes to soothe his rising anxieties. Two of the strings had snapped long ago and he hadn’t bothered replacing them. The neck was bent, the wood stained and chipped and scratched much like the bathroom stalls at the Twenty-Fingers Tavern.

 

     How he longed to return to that old place. How often he dreamt of walking through that door into the smoky warmth, to hear the drunken laughter and see all the familiar faces. He would give anything, though he had nothing to give.

 

     Itchy was so lost in his memories, he swore he could hear that drunken laughter as he meandered through the forest. It was getting ever closer. He stopped in place, ears tilting to follow the sound.

 

     He soon realized it was not in his head after all. Cautiously he crept down a narrow trail that branched off the main road. He was desperately hungry after hours of travel, beckoned by the smell of searing meat and pungent alcohol.

 

     The trail led to a clearing at a babbling creek. Here were at least a couple dozen satyrs, all drinking, laughing, and dancing around a fire where a whole boar was being spit-roasted. Itchy hid in the safety of the brush. No one had seen him yet. His gaze drifted over the scene, noticed that every one of them was naked like himself.

 

     There were probably two males for every female. But these males were not like him. Itchy had never seen satyrs so hairy and massive, posture hunched like great apes with heavy horns spiraling out from their heads. They practically dragged their knuckles as they moved about, dancing and fighting, trying to impress the giggling satyresses around them.

 

     The males charged one another, butting heads with such force that Itchy’s neck ached just watching them. The ground was littered with empty alcohol bottles and food scraps. One of the males tried jumping over the fire and his furry legs ignited. Steam rose with a hiss as he threw himself in the creek.

 

     Another was tearing into a severed deer’s leg while he thrusted into a moaning satyress. Just beside him, another satyress drunkenly stumbled and splashed down into the creek. One male had somehow gotten his horn stuck in a tree branch, struggling to free himself as the others laughed at him.

 

     So this was one of those “revels” Itchy heard about. He found himself frozen in place, watching his brethren’s antics for longer than was probably acceptable. Something deep inside him—some ancient, primitive thing—urged him to step forward and join the fun.

 

     Meanwhile cold, sober logic was pulling him back, reminding him that these bulls doubled him in size. They looked like a rough bunch, could surely lob him into the stars if they felt so inclined. Besides, he only had so much daylight left. It was a long way to Woodborne and every minute counted. He had to get out of the wilderness and into civilization before he succumbed to hunger, weather, or any of the other hazards out here.

 

     Itchy nearly jumped out of his skin when a hand touched his shoulder. He whirled around, now face-to-face with a shapely young satyress. Her golden curls spilled over her shoulders, dimples creasing her cheeks when she smiled. She pointed to his lute and queried, “Hey, can you really play that thing?”

 

     “Uh—” Itchy began.

He barely got a word out before she pulled him into the clearing and announced, “Everybody, this guy has an instrument! He’s a _musician_!”

Itchy tried again, “No, no, I’m—”

 

     But already a crowd was forming around him, whooping and chattering. He looked around at all their grinning faces. Their features were somehow different, seemed “stronger” than the satyrs he knew in Taybiya. They were even closer to beast than he, ever further from humanoid.

 

     When he arrived, they were making simple music with claps and grunts. “Play a song! Play a song!” they called to him.

Itchy hesitated. Then he cleared his throat and explained, “Guys, there’s no way! This thing’s in pretty rough shape. Besides, I can’t stay. I gotta—”

 

     He jumped when the satyrs cried out, began booing and growling. One of the males lumbered towards him and gave him a shove. The force effortlessly knocked Itchy on his backside. The stranger rumbled, “Listen to him! Fancy little _domestic_ thinks he’s too good for us!”

 

     The others muttered their agreements. Itchy stood up, raised his palms. “No, I—”

“Where you gotta be, huh? Your _job_?” a satyress spat.

Another male reached out and seized the neck of Itchy’s lute, wrenching it off his body. His long, black hair contrasted with his ruddy complexion, his beard tied in a crude knot.

 

     “Hey!” Itchy growled and lunged for him. The male swatted him away like a bothersome fly. Itchy rolled twice before he stopped in the dirt, clumsily staggering back to his hooves. “Get your sweaty paws off my lute!”

 

     The satyresses giggled and shrieked when he lunged for the stranger a second time. A third male grabbed him before he made contact, lifting him high above his head. Itchy flailed in his grip, screaming and cursing while the black-haired stranger plucked random notes on his beloved instrument.

 

     Itchy had nails at his fingertips, but these satyrs had hard, black claws. One of these claws severed another string on the lute, and the satyrs ooh’d and aah’d with wonder. Itchy let out a wail as he was thrown into the creek like an unwanted catch.

 

     The cold water consumed him, flooding up his nose and down his throat. It was all around him, attacking him from the inside and out. Itchy shot up to the surface with a shriek. Sobbing and stumbling, he scrambled his way back to the shore while the feral satyrs laughed at his misery.

 

     His fists trembled at his sides when he shouted, “What’s wrong with you people? You could’ve killed me!”

“A _breeze_ could kill you, townie,” a satyress scoffed. She waved a dismissive hand and went on, “If you’re not gonna play music, then what are you even good for? Get outta here. I don’t want your dainty, spongy little babies!”

“Me either!”

“Yeah, piss off!

“You smell like a corpse anyway!” the others added.

 

     “Give me my lute first, ya big, dumb animals!” Itchy growled through his teeth. His glare bore into the giant male holding the instrument. The male bared his teeth as he rose to his hooves, slowly moving towards Itchy with purpose.

 

     Itchy’s resolve was fading by the second. His angry brow began to sag, eyes rounding in fear. He stepped back as the stranger stepped forward until he was backed against the water’s edge.

 

     The stranger raised the lute in his right hand, high above his head. “You want it back? Take it!” he snarled, and the final string snapped as he brought it down on Itchy’s head. So too did the neck, then the body, then the rest of it as it smashed against him over and over.

 

     Though his skull was hard as stone, it was not Itchy’s bruised head that caused him so much grief. It was the pain of losing his gift from Mr. Sarfeesha, the very last piece of those happy days which he could hold in his hands. The feral satyrs bounced and jeered around him until finally, Itchy admitted defeat.

 

     The lute lay in a thousand pieces at his hooves. There was nothing to salvage as he took off, bounding away through the brush with a string of furious curses and tears on his face. Behind him all he could hear was laughter, drifting further and further away as he fled north.

 

*

 

     For three days Itchy travelled through Southriver Wood, surviving on foraged bounty and the creek’s water all the while. He encountered few people on the road, and when he did he kept his head down, said not a word. He passed secluded cabins but he did not stop in for a visit. It seemed that nothing good ever happened when he opened his mouth.

 

     Above food, above water, and above all he craved none other than booze. His stomach rolled, head pounding, hands trembling as if he were freezing to death. But the weather had been nothing but warm and merciful during his journey. Itchy knew that only alcohol could make the misery stop—but where to find it out in the middle of nowhere?

 

     Finally he arrived at the Bluerock River. The road took him to a great wooden bridge with a tall military outpost looming on the other side. Itchy scurried into the bushes and out of sight. He peeked through the leaves, saw humans in iron armor patrolling around the area.

 

     They were all embellished with blue motifs. Surely Evangeline soldiers, and sure to kill or enslave Itchy if they got a hold of him. This was not the best place to cross, he decided, and tromped deeper into the growth. Following the river east, he found a small, secluded clearing.

 

     From here he could see the river stretching all the way down to the horizon. The outpost was just a speck to the west and there were no other bridges in sight. The river was twenty men wide and probably five men deep as far as the satyr could tell. Crossing it would be hard enough, even without the crippling hydrophobia.

 

     Itchy swallowed the lump in his throat. He backed away from the shore and sat against the trunk of a gnarled, ancient oak that towered above all the other trees.

 

     Think. He had to think, though it was hardly his greatest skill. He was much better at jumping into things and suffering the consequences later. But this was a matter of life or death.

 

     And if he lived, Itchy believed he just might have a chance to turn everything around. Start a new life in a new town with a fresh reputation. Go to Folkvar Kingdom, where gaians lived like people instead of lowly street-vermin. He could be somebody. He could have it all, he thought, if he could just make it across the water.

 

     “Think, stupid… _Think_ …” he muttered as he hunched over his knees, staring hard at the dirt before him. He massaged his temples as if to stimulate his brain. The satyr became so focused on his thoughts, he never noticed the great beast stalking the woods behind him.

 

     It moved like liquid, silent and agile. Cautiously it crept through the undergrowth, brushing passed leaves and twigs without a sound. Its glowing yellow eyes fixated on the satyr as it crept ever closer, crouched down, ready to pounce.

 

     “Psst. Behind you,” a quiet voice whispered. It was barely louder than the breeze. Itchy’s ears twitched and he shot upright, turning all around.

“Who’s there?” he called. Then in that instant, a massive creature exploded out from the brush in a flurry of fur, teeth, and claws.

 

     Itchy leaped back and let out a shriek. The hulking panther swiped at him, its claws missing his face by a fraction of an inch. Its coat was as black as coal, obscured in the bold afternoon shadows. Itchy fell on his backside. There was no time to think anymore.

 

     With a predator ahead and a flowing river behind, Itchy made his decision. He took a deep breath and stood up tall. Then he spread his arms wide, closed his eyes tight and said, “Okay. You got me. Just…Go for the guts and make it quick.”

 

     The panther hissed, exposing long, sharp fangs as it crept forth. Riverside pebbles clacked together under its paws, displaced by its great weight. Itchy gnashed his teeth. So he had come this far just to be defeated by some random force of nature. He was not surprised.

 

     But he was not at peace with his fate either. Because for once life had shown him a ray of hope, had dangled it before him like a carrot on a stick…Only for it to be cruelly snatched away and eaten before him.

 

     Itchy closed his eyes, unwilling to watch himself be eviscerated. He felt the panther’s hot breath against his torso, the tickle of its whiskers, wrinkled his nose at the stench of carrion from its mouth. It had killed and eaten some other poor creature recently.

 

     When it sniffed Itchy, it drew its ears back in offense. And when it cautiously licked his grimy belly, it scurried backwards with a hiss. Itchy cracked an eye open. He watched as the beast hunched over and began to lurch. Half-digested meat and bristly hair spilled onto the rocks.

 

     “Aw, come on! I can’t taste _that_ bad!” the satyr griped. Somehow the whole scene had offended him. Though he was not as offended as the panther, for it threatened him with one final hiss before darting off back into the brush. He saw the bushes sway in its wake, and then all was still once more.

 

     Itchy let out a long sigh, shoulders finally dropping. He wiped the sweat from his brow, then jumped again when a soft giggle rang out beside him. He whirled around. The noise was coming from the mighty old tree, and as it twitched with laughter, he realized it was no tree at all.

 

     Or at least not yet. It was an ancient dryad who had rooted her feet in the soil probably centuries ago. Bark had consumed all but her face, now smiling down at him from the trunk. Her arms were stretched up and out, had become branches from which leaves sprouted and birds nested.

 

     “I was sure you’d make your escape in the river,” she said. Her voice crackled with strain and age.

Itchy shrugged, dug his cloven hoof into the sand. “Yeah, well, I can’t swim,” he grumbled.

“A satyr who can’t swim?” the dryad creaked.

 

     “Laugh it up, lady! I know I’m a pathetic loser. That’s why I’m tryin’ to get to Woodborne!” Itchy pointed to the north. “Folks up there treat folks like me like folks like them…Or so I’m told.”

 

     The dryad smiled. “Ah. Another refugee from the south, I take it?”

Itchy shrugged, dropped his hands to his sides. “You could say that. Anyway, uh…Thanks for warning me about the cat. Probably would’a got my head slapped off if you didn’t say somethin’.”

 

     “Oh, that greedy thing. I saw her gorge herself on a fat boar not even an hour ago,” the dryad chuckled. “You needn’t thank me for anything. It’s my job to keep an eye on the forest.”

“Your job, huh?” Itchy raised an eyebrow. “And who’s the boss of _you_?”

 

     “Mother Gaia, of course. We nymphs love our mother, so we vow to take care of her during her long slumber.” She paused. “Well, _most_ of us do. If you ask me, some of my sisters have been getting quite lazy. I hear of rivers in the eastern lands that glow with chemical filth. How they could let things get so dire is beyond me!”

 

     The dryad sighed, offered a smile. “Sorry, I do tend to ramble. I’ve been here for so very long, you see.”

 

     “No kidding,” Itchy murmured, looking her old trunk up and down. “And you ain’t got no one to talk to?”

“Oh, I do! My rooted sisters, we gossip all day long.” Her eyes drifted around, gestured to the innocuous trees surrounding her. “But I don’t often speak with the peoples like yourself. Usually they pay us no mind unless they mean to chop us down and burn us.”

 

     Her brown, craggy lips curled into a smile. “Word travels through the forest like wildfire. If my sister at the edge of the continent sees something interesting, I will surely hear word of it within the week.”

 

     Itchy’s ears drooped. He swiped at his neck, said, “Wow. I, uh, wish you never told me that.”

The dryad laughed. “Worry not. We only share forest secrets with eachother. To share with the peoples, well, could you imagine the chaos? All the unfaithful spouses who kiss beneath our leaves, the military spies hiding in our branches, and hidden corpses buried under our roots…Some things are best left unknown.”

 

     “Hidden corpses,” Itchy repeated, almost chuckled as he shook his head. He dragged a palm over his dirty face and went on, “Look, miss…”

“Oakley.”

“Ms. Oakley, just this once, would be willing to share a forest secret with me? I gotta cross that river, but the bridge is crawlin’ with slavers and that river’s ragin’ like a mean old drunk. There’s another way, isn’t there? If anyone knows, it’s gotta be you!”

 

     He looked up at her, face desperate and pleading. Oakley closed her eyes and let out a long, wispy sigh. It was like a breeze passing through the leaves. After a moment she replied, “If I tell you, you may tell others. And if you tell others, they will cross in droves. It will alter the land’s political climate, and with it, Mother Gaia’s climate.”

 

     The satyr tilted his head. He stared at her in disbelief as he queried, “Are you sayin’ you _want_ people to be enslaved?”

 

     “No. That is simply what you chose to hear,” she told him calmly. “I don’t expect you to understand, creature. You have not watched the world change as I have. You have not seen—and shall not see—even one full century. Just know that every action has a consequence. You must find your own solution, I’m afraid, for I cannot carry the burden of such change upon my back.”

 

     Standing before her in silence, Itchy stared down at his hooves. He absently scratched his beard as he pondered. His gaze drifted towards the river, up to Oakley, then down at his hooves once more.

 

     Finally he nodded to himself, as if reaching some silent conclusion. “Alright. I think I got it,” he said, and he began walking off towards the trail.

 

*

 

     Minutes turned to hours and there Oakley remained at her post, the very spot she’d rooted herself to centuries ago. Silently she enjoyed her view of the raging river, for it was the only view she had anymore as she lost her neck to her own bark.

 

     In time she would lose her hearing, sight, and voice as well. But today she could hear with her pointed ears someone rustling through the growth behind her. With her eyes she saw Itchy return, whistling a tune as he swung a wood axe around in a circle. With her voice she said, “I assumed you were long gone, satyr. Where did you get that axe?”

 

     Itchy stopped before her and replied flippantly, “Where does a satyr get anything? Folks say we got sticky hands. Ain’t my fault junk sticks to me wherever I go.”

He heard a breeze whispering through the leaves. But when he looked up, all the leaves were still. Then Oakley said, “Hmm. My sister tells me you paid a visit to a woodsman’s cabin. Is that true?”

 

     “Maybe it is, maybe it ain’t,” he replied, raising the axe up. “That’s what I call a ‘satyr secret’.” With that, the axe’s steel blade sunk into the dryad’s bark. He flinched, expected her to scream or curse at him.

 

     Rather, she regarded him with a stony expression and a dull, “Understood.”

 

     Itchy chopped away at Oakley’s trunk, chopped and chopped for almost an hour before he stopped for a rest. Breathless, he sat in the sand and wiped the sweat from his eyes as he panted, “So, you ain’t got nothin’ to say? Not ‘no, stop’ or maybe a ‘please, don’t’?”

 

     Oakley glanced down at the wound in her trunk, almost a quarter of it chipped away. “You are just as much a force of nature as the wind or the rain,” she told him simply. “If a wildfire had burned me to ash, I’d have no right to be angry, for it would be the will of my mother.”

 

     Itchy’s brows arced. “Yeah? Is it her will that some crusty jackass makes a bridge of you?”

At this, she smiled slightly. “I will not lay across the river for long. The soldiers will chop my trunk to pieces and burn what they can to stay warm. The animals will feast upon my leaves, my ash will feed the soil, and the soil shall nourish my young sisters for generations. I have lived long and I have served well. So yes, I believe it is Her will.”

 

     The two sat in silence for a long moment. Itchy then stood up, swiped the axe without a word. He began chopping at her once more as the shadows grew longer around him. The sky was getting dim. The air was getting cold.

 

     When the very last shreds of daylight blanketed the forest, Itchy heard a long, creaking groan. He hurried out of the way as Oakley’s damaged trunk finally broke in two, and watched in equal parts horror and relief when she toppled down. The ground quaked, the sound deafening as she crashed down on the opposite shore. Now her body lay across the river like a natural bridge.

 

     Itchy considered tossing the axe away, then thought better of it. He held the wooden handle between his teeth and climbed onto Oakley’s trunk. Slowly, carefully, he crawled his way across. He dared glanced down at the rushing water below and wished he hadn’t. The mere sight nearly made him lose his nerve, and his fingers dug deep into her bark.

 

     “My sisters have witnessed this,” her voice croaked. It was tired and weak. Itchy realized her face was below him, looking down at the water. She went on, “But they shall not speak of it to anyone who will matter to you. My death will be our little forest secret.”

 

     Itchy took a deep breath and relaxed his rising fear. He took the axe from his mouth, pressed his cheek to her bark and said, “Thanks, Oakley. And I’m...I’m sorry. You were the only tree tall enough to make it across.”

“So it goes,” she replied quietly. “The wind feels no remorse for the branches it rends, Itchy. Now go, before the soldiers arrive.”

 

     The satyr nodded and crawled along. He stopped after a few feet. “Wait. I never gave you my name, did I?”

“No,” said Oakley. “but you gave it to Elma. Her gossip travelled far while you were stealing that axe.”

 

     “Elma?” Itchy furrowed his brow, wracking his memories for such a name. Between the haze of alcohol and the excitement of his life, it was like slogging through mud. Then his brows jumped when he exclaimed, “Oh, _Elma_! B-but that was…That was years ago!”

 

     “Years to me are as days to you,” the dryad told him. “Now please, get across this river in one piece.”

Taking another deep breath, Itchy tried his best. He swung the axe and lodged it in the trunk, using it as a handle to drag himself across. Slowly by surely he made it to the other side.

 

     His hooves touched the shore and Itchy could have kissed the sand. But already he could hear mens’ voices in the distance, saw torchlight coming through the trees. Axe in hand, he chopped his way through the thick brush and forged his own path through the forest.

 


	4. TAINTED MEAT

 

### [CHAPTER 4: TAINTED MEAT]

 

     Woodborne was still days away. Itchy pressed on through the darkness of night, for his eyes always adjusted after some time. Apparently not all peoples’ eyes did that. He would always cackle, watching the human vagrants stumble around blindly at night. They were helpless the moment the sun went down.

 

     But not he, so he found a narrow road and followed it onward in the darkness. If he had his bearings correctly, Kelvingyard was only a few miles west. Though he had crossed the Bluerock River, he would not truly be safe until he passed into the Forest of Refuge. That was where Evangeline’s border ended and Folkvar’s began.

 

     Evangeline was a kingdom for commoners and commoners only. Most commoners had poor vision in the dark, so perhaps Itchy could sneak by under the cover of night. He hid in the bushes whenever someone passed him on the trail, mostly soldiers patrolling on horseback. When they grew suspicious, he mimicked animal sounds and they moved on.

 

     At some point he saw a warm light glowing in the forest. The smell of food and alcohol beckoned him so strongly he feared his growling stomach would attract predators. He hadn’t eaten but a handful of berries and seeds in days.

 

     His legs wobbled. His vision blurred. He realized that if he didn’t have something substantial to eat—or at least a sip of booze—he would collapse before he ever made it to Woodborne.

 

     Itchy cautiously meandered down a branch in the trail, mindful not to step on any twigs along the way. Silently he crept up to a campsite in a clearing. It was a spacious area full of stumps and chopped bushes, a makeshift outpost where two military tents sat across from eachother.

 

     A campfire smoldered between them. A blue banner dangled from a long pole jutting out of the ground. Itchy saw the movement of soldiers in their tents, their silhouettes swaying and laughing and knocking back drinks. They were drunk. He could tell that much by their sloppy laughter.

 

     Beside the tents was a horse-drawn wagon, and in the back of the wagon was an iron cage. Itchy squinted. Then his eyes rounded when he realized there was a person inside—a thin young satyress with a baby in her nude belly. Flame-orange hair topped her head and curled down her shoulders. She looked solemn and weary, slumped over in the corner of her prison.

 

     Itchy scanned the campsite once more. All of the soldiers were inside their tents. But there was a slab of meat hanging over the fire and they were sure to come out and eat it eventually. He saw no alcohol within reach and if he wanted a piece of that meat, he would have to creep dangerously close to those tents.

 

     Itchy bit his lip with longing as he stared at the sizzling roast. His stomach growled like a wolf. Suddenly the satyress’ furry ears twitched at the sound, and her eyes flicked towards him. Itchy looked back at her. He’d been discovered.

 

     He considered bolting away. But the satyress struggled to her feet and reached her arm through the cage to beckon him. She was silent, but she didn’t need to say a thing. He could see the desperation in her eyes. Below, her belly bulged with a life that was sure to begin any day.

 

     Itchy slapped a hand over his face and slowly dragged it down, considering all of his terrible options. Leave and starve to death. Snag some meat and possibly get enslaved. Or free the satyress and be killed.

 

     He looked this way and that, checking for scrutiny. Whatever he decided to do, he had to do it as quickly as possible, for the meat was smelling just about done. With a frustrated grunt, Itchy quickly crept into the clearing. The satyress watched with sullen eyes as he began approaching the campfire.

 

     Then Itchy stopped. He turned and looked back at her, looking back at him. A tear rolled down her cheek as she held her belly, silently mouthing one word.

 

     “ _Please_ …”

 

     Itchy looked back at the meat. Then at the tents. Then to the satyress. He gnashed his teeth, shaking his fists at some inner conflict until finally, he scurried up to the cage. The satyress gasped and clasped her hands together before her chest, whispering, “Oh, thank you, thank you, thank you…!”

 

     “Shhh!” Itchy hushed her and leaned his axe against the wagon. He then pulled a metal pin from his disaster of a braid. There was an iron padlock on the cage door. He squinted at it and shoved the pin inside, listening closely for the tumblers. The satyress held her breath. Every few seconds she glanced back at the tents.

 

     Itchy’s ears tilted as he listened, trying to steady his hands through the tremor of his withdrawals. Suddenly the satyress hissed, “Hurry, hurry, they’re coming out!”

Itchy mouthed a curse as he worked. He looked up and saw the silhouette of the soldiers rising to their feet. One of them stumbled out of the tent, another close behind.

 

     Quickly Itchy abandoned the lock and rounded the wagon. He hid behind the side and ducked, watching them from the shadows beneath it. The soldiers took their seats around the campfire and removed the meat from the spit. They were going to be there all night, he just knew it.

 

     He glanced back at the satyress. All the hope and excitement had drained from her face. Now she looked heartbroken once more as she sighed, dropped her face into her hands and wept. Itchy’s ears drooped. He was hungry before, but now all he felt was nausea as his stomach sank into oblivion.

 

     He couldn’t leave her here, couldn’t allow a child to be born in shackles if he could help it. He wouldn’t. There had to be some way…

 

     The satyr’s eyes darted about in desperate search of solutions. The horse was still attached to the wagon. He briefly considered jumping in the driver’s seat and taking off with it. But he noticed several other horses tethered across the camp, and surely the soldiers would chase him down.

 

     “Hey! Quit all that blubberin’ over there, beast-whore!” one of the soldiers called from the campfire. The other soldiers cackled as the satyress wept.

Another roared, “You fellas think she’s hungry or what?”

“I don’t know! Maybe we should stuff some meat in her and find out!” said the third, and all of them burst into drunken laughter.

 

     The satyress turned to Itchy, leaning hopelessly against the iron bars. “Just go…” she whispered. Itchy considered it. But his fists were trembling, and no longer from hunger or withdrawals. He found his hooves frozen to the soil. His gut had made his decision for him.

 

     Swiping the axe, Itchy drew his arm back and lobbed it with all his might. The human soldiers never saw it sail over them in a perfect arc. But when it crashed loudly in the bushes, they jumped to their feet with a start.

“What on Gaia was that?”

“Marshal, there’s a wolf or a hob or somethin’!”

“Draw your weapons, let’s check it out!”

 

     Itchy blinked, watching in surprise as the soldiers scattered away from the camp. He could hardly believe that worked. Now they had disappeared into the brush across the way, and Itchy seized the opportunity to return to the lock. Adrenaline steadied his hand. In mere seconds the padlock loosened.

 

     Quickly he tossed it to the side and wrenched the cage open, cringing at its loud, rusty squeak. The satyress wasted no time clambering down from the wagon. He caught her when she stumbled, then he shoved her into the bushes. “Run!” he told her, but she did not. Rather, she hid in the shroud of leaves and watched him bolt towards the campfire.

 

     They could hear the mens’ voices not far off as they searched for the “spy”. Itchy tore a chunk from the meat and swallowed it whole. Then Ginger covered her mouth, watching in disbelief as he picked up the entire hot roast and began humping it with reckless abandon. He rubbed the meat along the grimy, matted fur of his crotch and then around his tail.

 

     Once he heard the mens’ footsteps approaching, he put the food back on the stump just as he found it and rushed back to the satyress. He took her by the wrist and together, they escaped the slavers’ camp.

 

     Between the darkness and their drunkenness, the soldiers hadn’t yet noticed their captives’ absence. They returned to their seats and dug into their food, also failing to notice the thin layer of sweat, dirt, feces, and other mysterious filth upon it. Half-way through their meal, one of the soldiers furrowed his brow as he pushed his fingers in his mouth.

 

     He pulled out a brown hair and squinted at it in the firelight. “Hey, Marshal,” he began, “this meat taste _gamey_ to you?”

The marshal rolled his eyes and spoke over another bite. “Of course it does, idiot. It’s wild game, what do you expect? Just be grateful you’re not chewing through gruel rations.”

 

     The soldier shrugged and flicked the hair away. “I guess you’re right.”

 

*

 

     “So,” the satyress began. She hesitated as if she didn’t want to continue, but did anyway. “That roast looked pretty hot…”

 

     “Oh yeah. It scalded the bits, make no mistake,” Itchy replied flippantly. “But damned if it wasn’t worth it! Those pigs will be blastin’ from both ends for at least week or two, if it doesn't kill 'em first.”

 

     At this, she let out a weary giggle. Finally he could get a good look at her, saw the dark freckles peppering her fair skin from her face to her shoulders. Stubby brown horns sprouted from her forehead, her nose turned up like a slope. Her top set of teeth seemed oversized for her mouth, reminded Itchy of a rabbit.

 

     They were back on a side road now and hopefully well passed Kelvingyard. Itchy took in a deep breath, letting his shoulders sink as he let it out slow. The cold night air cooled his lungs along with the steaming anger inside him. He then turned to the satyress and asked, “Anyway…You got a name, ginger?”

 

     Her green eyes rounded. She tilted her head, replied, “Er, yes. I _am_ Ginger!”

Itchy stopped in his tracks, mouth falling open with a gasp. “You’re kiddin’ me!”

“No, it’s true! I promise!”

“Ha! Okay, okay. Try and guess my name!”

 

     Ginger folded her hands in front of her mouth, concealing a wry smile as she looked him up and down. She stifled a giggle and shook her head. Itchy grinned, urged her, “What? Come on, what is it?”

“Nothing.”

“Come on! What’s my name, huh?”

“I can’t…”

 

     “Is it Trashy? How about Sweaty? Maybe it’s Dirtbag?” he tapped a finger with each name he listed.

Ginger dropped her hands and laughed. Her face was weary but her smile was genuine as she told him sheepishly, “I was going to say ‘Stinky’.”

 

     Itchy’s grin faltered ever so slightly. He nodded and sighed, “Of course you were…”

“What is it really?”

“It’s Itchy.”

“And do you itch?”

“Every minute of the day, lassie.”

 

     “Well,” the satyress began, clearing her throat, “what you did back there was very brave, Itchy. Um, please don’t take offense to this, but I have to ask…Why did you do it? Those men—if they caught you they would have thrown you in there with me! We both would’ve been shipped to Kelvingyard.”

 

     Itchy didn’t answer right away. He swiped his neck as they walked on, shrugged as he mumbled, “I dunno, I…thought the food smelled good…Thought I could get a bite, or…”

“But then you saw that I needed help.”

The satyr’s shoulders jumped again. “Sure. I’m just a great guy, that’s all.”

 

     Ginger’s gaze fell as she pondered for a moment. “Thank gods you knew how to pick that lock! You were so quick too. You picked it like a—” she bit her tongue, folded her hands before her lips once more.

She dropped them when Itchy said flatly, “A thief. I know.”

Ginger leaned towards him, her voice a whisper when she asked, “Are you…?”

 

     Turning to face her, Itchy began walking backwards as he explained, “I’m a lot of things, okay? First of all, I was an orphan. Then I worked at a tavern, did the cleanin’ and all that. Life was good, at least ‘til I got orphaned again. After that I was a follower of Karenza, lived at one of their houses for a few years, did some charity work, travelled the world...”

 

     He sighed, “Got orphaned _again_. And then I decided that was it. I had it with the world, so I quit the whole game. Became a thievin’ bum for a while...”

 

     The satyr paused, then quickly added, “But that’s all behind me now! I’m a new man. Lookin’ to start an honest life in Woodborne like the civilized folk live.”

 

     “Wow. That is quite a history,” murmured Ginger. She let out an anxious laugh as she added, “I’m glad to hear you’re not a thief anymore, but thank goodness you used to be! What if you hadn’t known how to pick locks? I’d be…” She shuddered. “Ugh, I don’t want to think about it.”

 

     Itchy turned around, walking alongside her once more. Another grin tugged at the corners of his mouth. He was about to speak until the satyress suddenly stopped in her tracks. She cried out, “Oh!” and doubled over, arms wrapped around her bulging belly.

 

     The satyr stepped towards her. “W-what’s the matter? You okay?” he stammered.

“Mm-hmm,” Ginger told him through pressed lips, expression strained as she backed against a tree trunk. There she sat and panted, “I just need a minute. I’m sorry.”

 

     “So, are you…?” Itchy trailed off. He pointed to her, then gestured vaguely to his own belly.

“Pregnant? Yes, very much so,” she explained. “It’s a boy.”

“A boy? How do you know?”

Ginger shrugged. “I just do.”

 

     Leaning back against the tree, she closed her eyes and breathed deeply. Itchy stood fidgeting before her, looking down the trail both ways. No one was coming. Yet. But if they were to make it to Folkvar lands in one piece, they would need to get moving soon.

 

     The satyr cleared his throat. “Ginger, I don’t mean to rush you, but…”

“I know. I’m sorry,” she grunted, gnashing her teeth as she pulled herself upright. Itchy stepped forward and offered his arm. She tipped her head gratefully when she took it, keeping a secure hold as they continued down the trail.

 

*

 

     Finally Itchy and Ginger decided to call it a night. Fatigue had been claiming them for hours until Ginger collapsed on the road. Itchy refused to move on without her. Partly because he pitied her and partly because he needed her.

 

     He was helpless in the wild. That much was obvious. But Ginger knew exactly what mushrooms were safe to eat, where to find tubers and insects, and even how to tie a tourniquet with grasses (which she demonstrated after Itchy cut his arm open on a stick).

 

     Ginger also knew how to build a shelter, guiding Itchy as he put a simple lean-to together. He built a small firepit nearby and the satyress had a blaze going in less than ten minutes, using nothing but a stick and some grass. Itchy watched her in equal parts amazement and shame.

 

     They were a ways from the road, secluded in the shadows of the forest. Itchy could hardly keep his eyes open as he dragged himself into the lean-to. Meanwhile the satyress’ eyes were rounded like the sun, anxiously clasping her hands over her chest as he flopped down beside her.

 

     She held her breath as if awaiting a disaster. Itchy simply yawned, “G’night, Ginj,” and within seconds he was out like a candle in the wind. Slowly Ginger’s shoulders relaxed. She let out a long exhale and closed her eyes.

 

     Daylight spilled over the lean-to just a few hours later. It beamed through the gaps in the leafy roof and roused the satyrs from their fitful slumbers. Faint trails of smoke lifted from the ashes of the firepit. Not a moment of daylight should be wasted, so the two rose up and got ready to leave.

 

     “Itchy, wait,” called Ginger. The satyr turned to face her as she pointed to the lean-to, explained, “We need to tear that thing down before we go.”

“Huh? What for?”

Ginger grasped the frame of sticks and pulled, grunting back, “We can’t leave a trail. Only gaians build stuff like this—it’ll lead slavers right to us.”

 

     “Gotcha,” Itchy said, and with one hard kick he knocked the lean-to over. After tossing its parts in the brush, he picked the firepit apart and kicked dirt over the ashes. Then they were really ready to leave, continuing on the northeastern path to Woodborne.

 

     Ginger covered her mouth as she yawned. After the third yawn Itchy queried, “Didn’t get no sleep, I take it?”

“Not really, no.”

“Wasn’t me, was it? ‘Cause I snore. I snore _bad_ …That’s what my friends say anyway.”

 

     Ginger shook her head. “It wasn’t that. Trust me, I can sleep through anything. It’s just…” Forcing a quiet laugh, she went on, “To be honest, I half-expected you to hurt me.”

 

     “Hurt you? Why?” Itchy cocked his head.

The satyress shrugged her freckled shoulders. “I mean no offense, but you’re a _male_. Kind of a small, domestic male—again, no offense—but in my experience your kind can be…They’re just…” She floundered, gesturing vaguely.

 

     Then she let out a sigh and said, “Nevermind. Thank you for being so civilized, that’s all I’m trying to say.”

“Heh. Sure. _Civilized_ ,” Itchy chuckled, remembering the thousands upon thousands of times he’d been called an animal by the civilized folk in Taybiya.

 

     He nudged her shoulder and went on, “I’m a lot of things, Ginger, but I ain’t no sicko.”

“I do hope not, because I’m sure enjoying your company so far.” She nudged him back, oversized teeth dominating her smile.

Itchy’s ears shot upright when he blurted, “You are?”

 

     “Yes! You make me laugh and you’ve been so kind to me. Part of me is waiting for you to—I don’t know, shapeshift into an imp or something.”

“You’re saying you _like_ bein’ around me, even though I cuss and hump roast dinners and stink like garbage?”

 

     Ginger rolled her eyes. “I’m sure I smell like a spring meadow myself, sweaty and filthy as I am. Those slavers held me in that cage for days. I haven’t washed since.”

 

     Itchy tipped his head back and laughed. “Days! Ha! Try _months_ , lassie.”

“Months?” Ginger whipped her head towards him, wearing equal parts disgust and disbelief on her face. “Itchy, why on Gaia…?”

 

     The satyr hesitated, then tossed his hands up and said, “Some savages beat me up and dunked me in a creek a couple days ago. Does that count?”

 

     Ginger wrinkled her nose. “By the smell of you, no, it doesn’t. Let’s look for a bathhouse when we get to Woodborne, okay?”

Swallowing the sudden lump in his throat, Itchy croaked, “Y-yeah. Whatever you want.” He cleared his throat and then quickly changed the subject. “What’s got you headed for the red kingdom anyway?”    

 

     “It’s kind of a long story.”

Itchy shrugged. “I got time.”

“I suppose you do,” Ginger began, expression strained as she walked on. She folded her hands around her belly, took a deep breath and continued, “I’m Folkvarian myself. The slavers caught me as I was leaving Stonebirch. It’s um, a pretty big town somewhere north of Frostbite Crag.”

 

     She gestured north. “They were on their way to Kelvingyard, so your timing couldn’t have been better.”

“So you were leaving Stonebirch,” said Itchy. “Anywhere you were tryin’ to go in particular?”

“No, not really. I just wanted out of the city.” Ginger sighed.

 

     After a pause she went on, “My mother was a domestic satyr, you see. She was born and raised in civilization. But she said the civilized world was a nasty place, so she left and raised me in the wilderness with my aunties. She told me life was better among the trees and the nymphs.”

 

     Ginger shook her head. “I didn’t believe her. The wilderness is a harsh, unforgiving place full of beasts. So when my horns grew in, I went to go live with the civilized people.”

 

     Tossing her hands up, she added, “As it turned out, they were anything but! Just as many beasts prowled the city as the wilderness. So when I realized I was going to have a child, I couldn’t bear to bring him into such a harsh environment. I started wandering around, just looking for somewhere—anywhere—better than where I’d been.”

 

     Her gaze fell to her belly, expression heavy. “Time is running out. I—I don’t know what to do, Itchy. I just want to find a nice quiet little town where he can grow up to be healthy and good.”

 

     The satyr hesitated. He raised his hand as if to pat her shoulder. Then he thought better of it and awkwardly dropped it to his side. “Uh,” he cleared his throat, “well, you’re right about the city. It’s a trash-place full of trash-people. Then again, we ain’t seen ‘em all.”

 

     He waved a hand towards the north. “You ever been to Woodborne before?”

“No, never. I heard it’s right on the coast though, and I’ve always wanted to see the ocean.”

 

     “You’ve never seen the ocean?” Itchy’s brows shot up. He grinned and told her, “Aw, Ginger, it’ll blow your mind! I saw the ocean once, years ago. The priestesses tried to get me on a boat to Evik for some charity work. We got up to the port and I damn near shit myself. Wouldn’t step on that boat for _nothin’_.”

 

     Ginger chuckled, “I’m not sure I would either. I heard the ocean is so big, you can’t even see the other end.”

“You heard right,” Itchy said, pointing a finger at her. “And all kinds of creepy stuff goes on under the waves. There’s people with scales and gills that just live underwater all the time. And I heard there’s animals down there so big, they could swallow a town whole!”

 

     “Oh my,” the satyress gasped.

“And you know what else I heard? There’s a _whole kingdom_ of fish-people down there, and it’s the biggest kingdom in the world.”

Ginger tightened her grip on her belly. “Oh…”

“They ain’t good people neither. I guess they steal kids and turn them into soldiers or somethin’. One time I met this lady—”

 

     “Oh…Oh, Itchy!” Ginger called through gnashed teeth, stopping in her tracks. She doubled over and closed her eyes tightly. A bright red blush had spread over her face. Itchy whirled around, ran back to her side and took her by the arm.

 

     “W-what’s goin’ on?” he asked quickly.

“I don’t know! It hurts, it hurts bad, but—” Ginger’s knees quaked, hunching even further. She let out a strained groan of agony. Itchy’s eyes rounded. He grabbed his own horns, looking around at a loss for what to do. When he looked back to the satyress, she was standing over a puddle in the dirt.

 

     “No, no, no, Ginj!” he said breathlessly. “Not here! Not now! Hold him in a little longer, will ya?”

“I—I don’t think I can,” wheezed Ginger. “I don’t understand! He isn’t due for another— _Oh_!” Ginger’s face screwed up as she finally admitted defeat, letting herself collapse on the dirt road.

 

     “I don’t know what to do! I’ve never—I’ve never—this is my first child!” she exclaimed, then punctuated herself with another agonized groan. Itchy’s pulse hammered in his chest. He felt as if his heart was trying to escape his throat.

“I don’t know either!” he admitted. “Okay, don’t panic! What if you just, uh, reach in and pull him out? Then bam, it’s over!”

 

     Ginger reclined on her elbows. She panted through gritted teeth, “I don’t think it works that way!” Itchy opened his mouth to make another suggestion. She cut him off with a loud wail, sending a flock of birds flitting out of the trees.

 

     “Shhh! Ginger, please, shhh, it’s okay…!” The satyr desperately tried to quiet her as he scurried around the area, searching for anyone or anything that could help.

 

     “I can’t help it! Oh, Itchy, it hurts!” cried Ginger, and along came another wail. Itchy was sweating buckets, expecting a slaver to come trotting by on his horse any moment. Or perhaps a bear would be lured in by her screams, or a wolf, or a dragon…

 

     “Can’t you walk just a little?” he suggested sheepishly.

“ _No_ , you dumb bastard!” she screamed. He raised his palms and took a step back, and shortly after she apologized, “I’m so sorry! I—I—”

 

     “It’s okay. I get it,” he told her, then he kneeled by her side. Hooking one arm behind her back and the other below her knees, he lifted her with a grunt and began carrying her down the road.

 

     She clung to his neck and panted, “Itchy, you—you can’t! I’m too heavy, I’ll hurt you!”

“Ginj, I used to haul sacks of grain heavier than you! Back and forth, all day long for weeks,” he told her. “Heh, one time I broke into this mansion and they had a big ol’ armoire. Solid mahogany! I tipped that thing over and carried it right out the door on my back. You? Pff, you’re a feather.”

 

     Ginger clutched her belly with one hand as she said, “You can’t carry me all the way to Woodborne!”

“Says who?”

“Itchy…!”

“Look, forget Woodborne,” he told her flatly. “Let’s just find someplace that’s safe from animals ‘n blue boys ‘til this kid pops out. We’ll be okay, don’t worry!”

 

     With no other choice, the satyress nodded and tried to stifle her screams. Itchy swiped a short, solid stick off the roadside and passed it to her. Immediately she sunk her teeth into it. The wood creaked for mercy under her bite.

 

     Around the trail’s bend, the satyrs’ sensitive ears heard heavy hooves stomping against the dirt. Itchy had no doubt it was a patrolling soldier, so he ducked into the bushes with Ginger. He softly hushed her as he peeked between the leaves. A horse-drawn wagon was approaching in the distance.

 

     But it was no ordinary wagon and no ordinary horse. In fact, it wasn’t a horse at all. It was a centaur, grasping the handles of a crude wooden cart rolling along behind him. Several bales of hay were stacked within. Itchy squinted. The centaur’s equine body was brown with white patches on his back, the skin on his humanoid half almost as fair as Ginger’s.

 

     Long hair spilled down his shoulders in ashen waves. He was clad in nothing but a green wool blanket on his equine back and matching armbands around his biceps. Itchy exhaled, and with it his shoulders relaxed. It was only a fellow gaian. He saw no irons on this centaur’s wrists, so Itchy stepped out of the brush with Ginger in his arms.

 

     He stopped before the centaur, blocking his way as he exclaimed, “Hey! Buddy! We need help! You know a safe place she can have this baby?” He tipped his head down at Ginger, panting and whimpering in his arms. Her teeth sank deeper into the stick and a crack split from end to end.

 

     The centaur looked down at them, brow sagged above sky-blue eyes. Those eyes were lined by red tattoos that curled down his cheeks. He pointed to Ginger and asked in a thick, northern accent, “Doka-tor?”

“Huh?” Itchy furrowed his brow.

“Doka-tor,” the centaur repeated. He made a cradling motion, then pointed back the way he came. “Dok-tor!”

 

     “Oh! _Doctor_!” Itchy gasped. “Yes! Please, we need a doctor!”

The centaur nodded. Then he lumbered towards the satyrs and stooped low, lifting Itchy like a doll. Ginger was along for the ride as he placed them atop a bale of hay in the wagon.

 

     Before he turned, the centaur bumped his fist against his muscular chest and introduced himself. “Olof.”

Itchy showed him a nervous grin as he patted his own chest. “Itchy.” Then he patted Ginger’s head. “Ginger.”

 

     “Icktee. Jingor,” Olof repeated with a smile and a nod. Then he moved to the front of the cart, picked up the handles and began pulling them back the way he came.

 

     He moved with haste, trotting along as fast as the precariously-stacked bales would allow. Itchy held Ginger in his lap during the ride. He offered his hand and soon regretted it, for she nearly squeezed his finger bones to dust. He cringed, spoke through his strained throat, “We’re gonna be okay, see? I told ya!”

 

     Ginger murmured something over the stick. He couldn’t understand it, but he didn’t have to. Her expression was one of gratitude, and in that moment he felt more accomplished than he ever had in his life.

 

     The worst was over. It was really happening, he thought. He was on his way to the promised land, a place where dignity and success were just waiting to be seized.

 

*

 

     Olof turned off the main road, down a vague and narrow path into the trees. In less than an hour, he passed a crude wooden sign nailed to a pole.

“Drifter’s Hollow,” Ginger read aloud as they passed.

 

     Itchy quirked an eyebrow at her. “You can _read_?”

“Well enough. My mother taught me,” the satyress panted. “She went to school in—ugh! In Stonebirch.”

Itchy chuckled, “A satyr in school…Now I’ve heard everything!”

 

     “She had some money,” Ginger added. “I don’t know w-where she got it, but—but she spent it on an education.”

Itchy’s grin faded. He slowly nodded, hesitated before he told her, “Yeah. I almost went to school too. My Grappa was savin’ money for it, and then…” he shrugged. “I don’t know what happened. Didn’t leave me nothin’ in his will.”

 

     “That’s very unfortunate.”

“Heh, well…I’m glad he didn’t 'cause it would have been a waste. The priestesses tried to teach me plenty. Turns out I got a head like a stone wall.” He knocked on his skull for emphasis. “Stuff flies over it, but ain’t nothin’ getting through.”

 

     Olof pulled the wagon down the long, meandering trail. The forest was thick and shadowy with massive redwoods towering all around. Birds tweeted from high up in the canopy. Along the trunks squirrels skittered and frolicked. Everywhere they looked, there was movement and life. Even the trees seemed to sing as they creaked and whorled under their own weight.

 

     Eventually they passed into a great clearing. Here stood a slapdash village where peoples of many kinds bustled around the dirt paths. The structures were built organically along the slopes of the land, some of stone, some of wood, some of mud. Inconsistent was the architecture, as if people had moved their houses in from foreign corners of the world.

 

     They passed satyrs, elves, minotaurs, and gorgons. Gaians seemed to dominate the population in numbers. But not a single one was wearing slaves’ irons, nor were they stumbling around drunk or hanging in stockades. Itchy heard chatter in many different languages, a couple of which he recognized from his time in Serkel.

 

     The cart stopped before a small building of wood and stone. The shingled roof was topped with a layer of green moss. Olof lifted Ginger out of the cart and carried her inside, Itchy closely in tow. The centaur had to duck through the doorway. Inside was some kind of lobby with mismatched chairs along the walls.

 

     “Doka-tor!” Olof called, his booming voice making Itchy jump. In seconds someone passed through another door. He was wearing a long off-white coat of leather. Itchy raised a brow, had not expected the doctor to be a satyr like himself. His complexion was just a couple shades lighter than Itchy’s, his graying hair pulled into a loose ponytail. His beard was pulled into one too.

 

     Olof tipped his head towards Ginger and explained in his broken language, “Uh, bay-bee out!”

Itchy’s stomach dropped when he heard the doctor speak with a completely different accent, but equally broken Universa, “Yes, thank. I fix. Take, take.” He stood in the back doorway and gestured inside.

 

     Olof took Ginger into a larger room with three beds against the wall. A wooden table sat in the center. Itchy’s gaze travelled around to all the sharp, menacing instruments lying about. A bin in the corner was stuffed with bloodied rags. Jars of leeches, eyeballs, bones, and mixtures Itchy couldn’t identify were lined up and labeled on the shelves.

 

     The doctor draped a large cotton rag across the table and patted the edge. Olof carefully laid Ginger down upon it as the doctor retrieved a burlap sack from the corner. It seemed to be full of sand. He placed it behind Ginger’s back and used it to prop her into a reclining position.

 

     Then he turned to Olof and Itchy, waving them towards the door. “Good, thank,” he said with a smile, pointing to the lobby. “I fix! Sit, sit, I fix!”

 

     With that, he turned and closed the door behind him. Itchy stood on the other side and helplessly listened to Ginger’s muffled wails. His job here was done, he thought. Now it was time to brush his hands of this whole mess, maybe get something to eat in town, then continue on to Woodborne.

 

     He spent a lot of time staring at his map when he was young. If he was remembering it correctly and he had his bearings right, Woodborne shouldn’t have been more than a day’s walk from here.

 

     Yet there he sat in the lobby of some backwater clinic, waiting for some kind of conclusion. Some confirmation that Ginger would make it through. Despite how they barely understood eachother, Olof waited there right beside him.

 

After several minutes passed, Itchy turned to him and said, “You can go, Olof. Thank you. I don’t know what we would’a done if you hadn’t shown up." He paused. "Die, probably.”

 

     Olof just looked at him with a big toothy smile. He pointed to the door to the examination room, then offered Itchy a heavy pat on the shoulder. “Happy! Good papa,” he said.

Itchy quirked an eyebrow, then replied, “Oh, no, no! That ain’t _my_ kid, heh. I barely know that lady. She, uh…Looked like she could use some help though.”

 

     The satyr wasn’t sure why he bothered to explain himself to this man, who most definitely didn’t understand more than a couple words he said, if any at all. His legs bounced nervously, hands clasped and trembling in his lap.

“Happy,” Olof repeated with a smile, clapping him on the back.

 

     The two sat together in silence. Silent, except for Ginger’s occasional scream or curse from behind the door. Every time her voice swelled, Itchy’s hairs stood on end and his stomach twisted into knots. He glanced at Olof, who at some point had laid down and made himself comfortable on the floor.

 

     Olof glanced back at him and offered a friendly smile. His hair was shiny and combed, his curly beard clean and well-groomed. Itchy couldn’t help but feel like a reeking pile of garbage in this kindly centaur’s presence. He was filthier than he’d ever been in his life, for never in his life had he been splattered with a pregnant woman’s blood and _fluids_.

 

     Surely he smelled horrendous. But Olof remained by his side for what felt like hours. At some point after the day tipped into evening, Olof finally rose to his feet and walked out the door. Itchy felt a sense of loss when he left. The room suddenly felt cold and barren, even though other people had come to wait since. They almost sat near Itchy when they walked in, but must have caught a whiff of him, for they turned around and sat on the other side of the room instead.

 

     None of their injuries seemed too urgent. A gorgon staunched her bleeding hand with a piece of cloth, an elf limping on a sprained ankle, and a dworf who loudly complained of a throbbing tooth ache. The doctor peeked his head through the door a couple times and assured them, “I fix! Wait, wait, okay!”

 

     Every time he opened the door, Ginger’s wails blared out like a siren. Itchy cupped his hands around his mouth and called, “Hang in there, Ginj! You’re doin’ great!” When in reality, he had no idea if she was or not. What if there was some complication? What if she didn’t survive? He shuddered at the terrible thought, physically shook it from his head.

 

     He jumped when the door suddenly flew open. A slim female elf with a brown complexion barged in and hollered, “Doctor Che, it’s Gwyneth! Brogan got his dumb ass into some poison oak again! Can you spare some salve?” She planted her hands on her hips, tapping her foot impatiently as she waited. Her black hair was cut short and asymmetrically, one side nearly covering her entire left eye.

 

     After a few seconds, she barked, “Che! Need salve! Now!” Just then, the doctor poked his head through the door. Without a word, he tossed a small glass bottle across the room. The elfenne swiftly caught it in one hand. “Finally! Thanks,” she said.

 

     Che disappeared behind the door with a quick nod, then she approached a box sitting on the front desk. The box was made of solid wood and seemed to be nailed in place. There was a thin slot at the top, where the elfenne dropped five gold coins before she left.

 

     Itchy’s eyebrows arched. Were patients expected to pay? Would Ginger be jailed if she couldn’t? Itchy didn’t know the laws of Drifter’s Hollow. He didn’t know anything about it. In fact, he’d never even seen this place on a map.

 

     Shortly after Gwyneth walked out, Olof walked back in holding a small burlap sack. He took his place next to Itchy where he’d sat before. “Oh. You’re back,” Itchy greeted. Somehow the centaur’s presence soothed his rising worry. Olof smiled and reached in the bag. He pulled out a handful of roasted chestnuts and offered them in his palm.

 

     Itchy had forgotten all about his nagging hunger until he saw the food. He took it gratefully, and within the hour the two had emptied the bag.

 

     It was nearly dark by the time Che emerged from the examination room. Itchy shot upright and blurted, “Is she okay?” for her wailing had gone silent for some time. But Che was smiling as he beckoned him into the room.

“Baby good! Strong!” he said, flexing his arm for effect.

 

     Itchy turned back to Olof. The centaur shot him a nod, staying behind as the satyr rushed into the room. Ginger lie on the table before him, holding a swaddled bundle in her arms. Her weary eyes flicked towards Itchy. With an equally weary smile she told him, “He’s a boy.”

 

*

 

     When Itchy carried Ginger back into the lobby, Olof was quick to take her off his hands. The baby boy whimpered in her arms as he and his mother were carried through the village. Itchy trailed them with no idea as to where they were going until they arrived at a boxy longhouse.

 

     It was a sturdy structure of wood and stone, the windows blocked by woven grass screens with shutters at their sides. Olof’s hands were full, so Itchy hurried to open the door. It was not locked, nor did it even have a lock. The interior was spacious and basic. All one room with a tall, vaulted ceiling above.

 

     A tall wooden table sat against one wall. A bed of loose hay was piled in the corner and the shelves were full of preserves. The whole room smelled of hay and horses. In the center of the room was a brick fireplace, its chimney extending up and through the roof.

 

     Olof sat Ginger down in the bed of hay, then crossed the room to grab a massive wooden washtub leaning against the wall. He laid it out near the fireplace, then swiped two large buckets before trotting out the door. Itchy cautiously approached Ginger. Kneeling beside her, he asked, “You feelin’ okay?”

 

     “Yes, of course,” she slurred. “The doctor gave me the most wonderful medicine before I left! Itchy, look at him…” She grinned, raising the sleeping baby up. “Isn’t he the most beautiful thing you’ve ever seen?”

 

     Itchy tilted his head, looked down at the fair-skinned boy and his mop of tomato-red hair. Dusting his skin were hundreds freckles just like his mother’s. “Sure looks like you,” said Itchy.

 

     Ginger closed her eyes, sighed in what seemed like relief. “I’m so glad he does,” she told him. “His father was a wicked person, just absolutely _foul_. I never want to lay eyes on him again.”

 

     Itchy glanced up at her. “He ain’t around anymore, huh?”

She shook her head. “No. But that was entirely his own choice. It was the only good decision he ever made.”

 

     In that moment, Olof returned with his buckets full of water. He poured them into the washtub, then left to fetch more. Itchy nudged the satyress and tipped his head towards the washtub. “I think he’s fixin’ you that bath you wanted,” he said.

“Oh, thanks the gods! I can hardly stand to be in my own skin about now. What a lovely man, that Olof. Gosh, there must be a way I can repay him somehow…”

 

     “Don’t worry about it,” Itchy told her with a dismissive wave. “Relax for a while, huh? All you gotta worry about now is you and that little tomato of yours.”

 

     Ginger giggled, sloppy in the haze of the medicine. “ _Tomato_ ,” she repeated thoughtfully. “How cute! I really like that.”

 

     Six buckets of water filled the washtub. Olof sprinkled some kind of dried herb into the water and swirled it about with his hand. Then he stepped back and gestured towards the tub, beckoning the satyrs inside. Itchy helped Ginger climb in, leaving the baby to sleep on the bed of hay.

 

     Olof loaded logs into the fireplace while Itchy stood awkwardly off to the side. Ginger dunked her head below the surface, and when she came back up he was still there. “Itchy,” she began, “you’re welcome to wash with me. There’s plenty of room! And whatever these herbs are, they smell just lovely.”

 

     The satyr swiped at his neck as he floundered for a reply. His voice creaked when he said, “Maybe later. I dunno. I just, uh…”

“You’re in _desperate_ need, Itchy,” Ginger told him flatly, almost pleadingly.

 

     “I know, I know! But…” he trailed off, gesturing vaguely.

Ginger quirked an orange eyebrow. “But what?”

“I can’t say. You’re gonna think I’m an idiot.”

 

     “That’s ridiculous! Are you shy? It’s okay to be shy.”

“Uh, no. It ain’t that,” the satyr sighed. He glanced over at the flames that sparked to life in the fireplace. Olof’s hooves thumped heavily across the wooden floor as he approached the kitchen area, began fumbling with jars and dishes from the shelves.

 

     After a long hesitation, Itchy finished, “Since I was a little kiddo, as far back as I can remember, I’ve been scared of water. I mean, completely terrified.”

“Of water? Really?” Ginger cocked her head. “I’ve never heard of such a thing!”

He folded his arms as if to hug himself as he explained, “I hate baths, I hate swimmin’, I hate being wet at all! I feel like it’s stranglin’ me. I can’t really explain it.”

 

     His gaze flicked back up to the satyress reclining in the washtub. “Pretty stupid, huh?” he mumbled.

Ginger assured him, “I don’t think it’s _stupid_ , Itchy. I think it’s very sad! What a terrible fear to have.” She frowned, combing the herb-infused water through her hair. “No wonder you’re so dirty. How on Gaia do you live this way?”

 

     Itchy shrugged. “I drink a lot.”

“And drinking the water doesn’t scare you?”

“Not water, Ginj. Booze!”

A crease carved itself between Ginger’s confused brows. “Alcohol _is_ water, Itchy.”

 

     The satyr shook his head. “No it ain’t! _Water_ is water. Booze is booze. Water comes from the ground and the sky, but booze comes outta crops. Silly lassie! Didn’t your fancy book-learnin’ teach you this stuff?”

Ginger blinked, stared at him for a moment before she returned to her bath. “If you say so…”

 

     At the front of the longhouse, Olof sliced several vegetables and dumped them into a pot. The pot was placed on a rack in the fireplace and left to boil, then he was out the front door once again. Ginger turned back to Itchy and said, “So you must wash _sometimes_. How does that work?”

 

     “Booze,” Itchy replied flatly, “and lots of it. I swear, it’s the only way I can get through it! Always comes a point when I start makin’ myself sick. That’s when I suck down some good moonshine and jump in the river.”

“My goodness, how dangerous! What if you pass out? You could drown, you know!”

“Yeah. I know.”

 

     A tattered rag was draped over the edge of the tub—a courtesy left by Olof. Ginger swiped it and dunked it in the water. After wringing it nearly dry, she held it out towards Itchy. “Here. Just scrub a little? It’s better than doing nothing.”

 

     Itchy winced. “Aw, Ginger, I can’t. I…”

“I’m not asking you. I’m _telling_ you that if you don’t take care of yourself, you will suffer and then you will die.” The satyress frowned. “You deserve better. Please, Itchy? Will you do it for me?”

 

     The satyr’s teeth pressed together behind his lips, eyes burdened with something heavy. A terrible conflict raged inside him. It was so violent that it made him shudder from his ears to his tail. Ginger looked back at him with an apologetic yet hopeful smile.

 

     Had she not kept him alive through the most critical part of his journey? Did he not owe her something? Itchy hadn’t the time or energy to ponder all that. Rather, he just let out a long groan and forced himself to take the rag from her hand. She smiled ear-to-ear as he scrubbed it quickly over his face, shoulders, all the way down to his hooves.

 

     All the while he groaned and griped, expression contorted as if bugs were crawling across his face. “I hate it,” he grumbled. “I hate it, I hate it, I hate it…!”

“But you’re doing it!” Ginger told him. “Look at you, you already look so much better!”

 

     Itchy dropped the rag like it had bit him, shuddering at the damp feeling on his skin. But when he looked down at that skin, it was a full shade lighter as the worst of the grime had been rubbed away. The rag lie at his hooves, once white and now a sickly reddish-brown.

 

     His hair, his beard, and the shaggy fur on his legs still needed a combing. But this was a start. This was cleaner than he’d been in weeks, and once the moisture evaporated from his skin he couldn’t deny that he felt pounds lighter. A heavy sigh escaped him. “Thanks, Ginger,” he murmured.

 

     The satyress’ rosy cheeks plumped when she smiled. Just as she stepped out of the tub, Olof stepped through the door. This time he was not alone, for a baby centaur stumbled clumsily at his side. Ginger and Itchy both raised their goatish ears in surprise. Ginger gasped, “Oh my gosh, look at that sweet baby! How adorable!”

 

     Olof probably didn’t understand her words, but her tone said enough. He smiled proudly as he bumped his fist against his chest, then gestured to the baby and said, “Olof, papa. Frederick.”

“Oh, Frederick, how nice to meet you!” Ginger cooed. She finished drying her fur and slung the towel on the edge of the tub.

 

     The baby centaur couldn’t have been more than a year old. Like satyrs, they learned to walk quickly. But this boy was still learning and he toppled over twice as he made his way to Ginger. His hair was more curled than his father’s, much darker in color. The fur on his equine body was slightly darker as well and without his father’s white spots.

 

     Ginger took Frederick’s tiny hands in her own and giggled, waving them up and down in a play-dance. The baby’s smile beamed and he broke out in excited laughter. Ginger’s own smile faded slightly. She turned to Itchy and whispered, “He’s so _thin_ …”

 

     Indeed the child appeared malnourished, the outline of his ribs visible below his skin and fur. His limbs appeared frail. The pot had boiled long enough, so Olof removed it from the fire and spooned the soup into wooden bowls. Ginger’s baby suckled at her breast while she ate her soup at the table.

 

     Itchy sat on the floor and bypassed the spoon, simply drinking it down in two gulps. It was a rich broth thick with mushrooms, potatoes, and sprouts. He watched Olof from the corner of his eye, lying on the floor with his son. He chewed a bite of vegetables, then spit it back onto the spoon and offered it to Frederick.

 

     The boy eagerly ate everything offered to him. But after three bites, he suddenly spit up every bit onto himself. Frederick began to cry as his anxious father wiped him off with a rag. The look on Olof’s face was pained; a pain that clearly ran much deeper than the present.

 

     Ginger brought her fingers to her lips, watching them with a similar expression. She turned to Itchy once more and said, “I don’t think that baby’s ready for food yet. He needs milk.”

Itchy cocked his eyebrow and set his bowl aside. “Where’s his momma then?”

Ginger sighed, “Probably best not to ask…” Then she turned to Olof and called, “Olof! Um, would your baby like some milk?”

 

     The centaur furrowed his brow slightly. The way he looked at her, he clearly didn’t understand. She tried again, spoke slower, “Me, Ginger…” She gestured to herself. “Have milk, food…” To her baby, then her opposite breast. “For Frederick…” Then she gestured to Frederick, whimpering by his father’s side.

 

     Olof paused. Then his furrowed brows arced high and he nodded with understanding. Ginger sat on the floor beside him. Itchy pretended to pick at the mats in his fur as he watched them from the side of his vision. The moment Ginger offered it, Frederick hungrily latched onto her breast as if she were his own mother.

 

     Beside her, Olof pressed a hand to his chest. His shoulders sank low and he exhaled as if in some great relief. Gently he patted Ginger’s red head and told her, “Happy. Good mama.”

 


	5. LITTLE HOUSE

### [CHAPTER 5: LITTLE HOUSE]

 

     The last time Itchy slept indoors was over a decade ago. But his streak of nightly shivering was broken when Olof opened his home to him.

 

     The centaur unloaded one of his hay bales from the cart and spread it beside the first. He and Frederick slept upon one hay pile while Ginger, her baby, and Itchy took the other. The fire gradually died, but the house stayed plenty warm through the night. Hours later, morning sunlight beamed through the slatted shutters and streaked across the floor.

 

     Olof rose before anyone. He picked up his son and they went outside, Itchy could only imagine, to relieve themselves. He followed, for he needed to do the same. Ginger lay beside her baby and looked upon him with adoration. By the time she got out of bed, the men had returned.

 

     Ginger tapped Itchy’s arm and asked, “Do you think it would be okay to take Tomato outside?”

“Tomato? You really named the kid Tomato?”

“I think _you_ did, technically.” The satyress smiled.

Itchy tossed his head back and wheezed with laughter. “You’re kiddin’! That’s great, I love it!” Once he caught his breath, he queried, “Yeah, sure, take him outside! What could go wrong?”

 

     “Well, the sun is so _bright_. And there are _bees_ out there!” Ginger hugged Tomato close. He was diapered in cloth and swaddled in a blanket once again.

Itchy slapped the air and told her, “Pff, come on. He’s a satyr! He was born to live like an animal! Take him out, show him around.”

 

     Just then the front door creaked open. Itchy turned to face it. Then his eyes widened, jaw falling slack at the sight beyond it. Standing in the doorway was an elfish woman. But she could be no elf, for her skin was green as spring growth. Pink hair flowed from her head, from which fat white daisies sprouted.

 

     She was sharp and shapely, glowing with an unearthly kind of beauty. Other than the long hair spilling down to her hips, her green skin was bared to the world. She leaned in the doorway and spoke to Olof, said, “You better finish that delivery this time, Olof. I don’t exactly have time for all this babysitting.”

 

     Her gaze flicked over to the satyrs as if she’d just noticed them. “Hello. I’ve never seen you before,” she said.

“I’m Ginger,” said the satyress. “This is my son, Tomato. And over there is my friend, Itchy.”

Itchy whipped his head towards her. Friend? He had a friend?

 

     Flora’s pink lips stretched into a smile, though her eyes looked dull with boredom. “A pleasure. My name is Flora,” she said. “I’m something of a…an _authority_ around here. I’ve been here for a very long time, you see.”

 

     Ginger nodded. “I imagine so. You’re a nymph, aren’t you?”

“A limniad, specifically,” Flora clarified. “I keep the plants. Your lawns, your flowers, your crops—that’s all at my mercy.”

 

     She tipped her head towards Olof and added, “Sometimes when I’m in the mood, I’ll hand you a favor or two. But don’t get greedy with me, understand?”

“Of course not,” said Ginger. “I’m very grateful to be here, Ms. Flora. This is a beautiful village you have, and Olof has been so very kind to us!”

 

     “Yes. He moved in just a few months ago and he’s already proved himself to our people,” the nymph said dully. “He doesn’t have the best grasp of Universa yet, as I’m sure you’ve noticed. But Olof is like an orchid rising from the manure pit that is Drifter’s Hollow. Not many good men around here, I warn you. But he is one of them, and that’s the only reason I’m watching his child today. That doesn’t mean I’ll do the same for you.”

 

     Ginger nodded again. “I don’t think I could let Tomato out of my sight anyway. I just love him so much!”

Once he was done packing a sack of food, Olof handed it to Flora and sent his son off with her. Then he turned to the satyrs and explained, “Olof go. Home, dark.”

 

     With enough pantomiming, they understood that he was leaving to finish the hay delivery they’d interrupted yesterday, and that he would be back after dark. He pointed to the kitchen area and made eating motions as he nodded, telling them to help themselves if they wished. With that, he disappeared.

 

     “Are you gonna be okay here by yourself?” Itchy asked Ginger. She sat in the grass beside Olof’s house, raising a dandelion to her son’s nose.

“I imagine so,” she replied. “Go on, please. Explore the village and tell me what you find when you come back.”

“Alright. I’ll be back later then,” Itchy told her, and with reluctance he turned to leave.

 

     He craned his neck to look back at her twice as he walked down the dirt path. Various plants were plucked and lined up before her. One by one, she was introducing them to Tomato. A smile spread across Itchy’s face, most involuntary and unexpected. It caught him off-guard, so he coughed into his fist to wipe it and hurried into the village proper.

 

     There were things that Itchy needed to do—or at least _believed_ he needed to do before he finished his journey to Woodborne. His most urgent priority was getting his hands on some alcohol. The next was finding pornography, a prostitute, and maybe a comb to make himself presentable.

 

     But to get those things, he needed gold. Itchy passed a small but busy market in the center of town. He recognized Gwyneth, the bossy elfenne from the clinic yesterday. She must have run the place, for she barked orders at the dirty-blonde satyr hauling her inventory back and forth.

 

     Itchy raised his ears in surprise. He’d never seen a satyr working a job before, especially one like him: one that refused to wear clothes and kept his hair long. “Brogan!” Gwyneth hollered at the satyr. “What did I tell you about dropping those crates? If any of those bottles are broken, it’s coming out of your pay!”

 

     “Aye, my darlin’,” Brogan replied flatly. Then he returned to the mule-drawn wagon nearby and picked up another crate. Customers chatted away, crowding around the displays of fruit, vegetables, dried meats, and random homewares like pots and baskets. Gwyneth’s market carried a wide variety of things, but most notable to Itchy was the alcohol locked away in a brass cage.

 

     Pushing through the crowd, Itchy made his way up to Gwyneth. He cleared his throat and greeted, “Hey! You’re Gwyneth, ain’tcha? Didn’t I see you yesterday at the doctor?”

Gwyneth looked down at him, quirking a thin eyebrow. She stood at least a foot taller than he.

 

     “Yeah, I was there,” she said. She jerked her thumb towards Brogan working behind her. “Not for me. Had to get some aloe cream for numbskull over there. So, who are you and what do you want?”

 

     Itchy swiped at his neck, offered an anxious grin when he explained, “Name’s Itchy, nice to meet ya. Me and my, uh, _wife_ just escaped from some slavers. She had the baby yesterday at the clinic, and we got nowhere to go...”

 

     Gwyneth stared down at him, expression dull and flat. Perhaps the pity angle wasn’t moving her, but Itchy had no choice but to commit to his lies as he went on, “…Anyway, your man there looks like he needs some help. You wouldn’t happen to be hirin’, would you?”

 

     The elfenne planted her hands on her hips. She looked him over, up and down several times. “I don’t know. You’re pretty shrimpy,” she told him. “What makes you qualified to work at my market?”

“I’m a hard worker. I used to be a barkeep, and then I owned a tavern, and then I was a priest of Karenza for a while. I got lots of skills!”

 

     “Yeah? What happened to your tavern? And why aren’t you a priest anymore—did they kick you out or something?”

Itchy hesitated. Sweat began to bead on his brow. “N-no, no, nothin’ like that!” he stammered. “Uh, I sold the tavern to this nice couple, said they were gonna ritz it up. Decided to donate the money to the church and live the simple life, you know?”

 

     He shrugged. “Turned out it wasn’t for me. So I’m startin’ fresh with my new family. Those slavers took us a long way from home and we’re just tryin’ to get by in this place.”

 

     “Uh-huh,” Gwyneth mumbled doubtfully. Then she sighed and pointed to the delivery wagon. “How about this: you empty the rest of that wagon for me, then unload the stock onto the displays. Then we’ll see just how competent you are.”

The satyr grinned, exposing crooked, yellowed teeth. “You’re a peach, Gwyneth! Thanks a lot! You won’t regret it.”

 

     “Whatever. Don’t get your hopes up ‘cause I haven’t made my decision yet,” the elfenne said. Then she hollered towards Brogan, “Brogan, you have the day off! Go home and tend the garden!”

“Aye, darlin’,” he replied simply, then brushed his hands off and walked off down the trail.

 

     Itchy raised an eyebrow. “You guys are married, I take it?”

“Pff. He wishes.” Gwyneth rolled her eyes. “None of your business anyway. Just get to work!”

 

     That said, the elfenne left to address a line of customers at her stall. Itchy approached the covered wagon, and it was stuffed side-to-side with wooden crates. Some of them weighed twice as much as he, and he was forced to push them along the ground to the others.

 

     Itchy was exhausted by the time every crate was unloaded, but his job was still far from done. He opened each one with a pry-bar and placed the inventory in the proper displays. He couldn’t read the labels, but it seemed he didn’t have to. Each display had two labels: one with a word and one with a crude drawing of the item. Perhaps Brogan couldn’t read either. The discarded wood was placed in a shed, which Gwyneth said would be burned for warmth in the winter.

 

     The sky was growing dark by the time he finished. Gwyneth began closing the doors on the displays, locking them shut with metal padlocks. Even at a glance, Itchy knew he could pick those locks in under a minute.

 

     This place wasn’t like Taybiya. It must have been safer, more peaceful, for the security was a joke. Some of the houses didn’t even have doors. Very few had glass in the windows, much less the metal security bars he was used to.

 

     “Well, Scratchy…” Gwyneth began.

The satyr corrected her, “It’s, uh, _Itchy_.”

“Right. Well, Itchy, I have to say I’m impressed! You did alright. About on par with Brogan, except you didn’t break anything. I appreciate that.”

 

     Then she reached into the pocket of her apron and counted out some gold coins in her palm. She dropped ten of them in Itchy’s hands and said, “Come back tomorrow at sunrise. Can you read?”

“Er, not really…”

“Can you count?”

“Up to a thousand!”

 

     “Good, that’s all you really need.” A hint of a smile crossed her lips. “Tomorrow I’ll have you working the stall. I’ll let Brogan hump freight and maybe I can get a damn break.”

“Hey, before I go,” Itchy broke in, “mind if I buy a drink off ya? It’s been a long week…”

 

     Gwyneth pulled the lanyard from beneath her shirt, unlocking the alcohol cage with the key on the end. She handed Itchy two beers and said, “These are on me. Your wife probably needs a drink too, huh?”

 

*

 

     Itchy didn’t return to Olof’s house right away. First he ducked behind some bushes and cracked the beers open with his teeth. He tipped them back and guzzled them both at once, then wiped his mouth on his arm with a satisfied sigh. The empty bottles were lobbed deep into the forest.

 

     Just as he got up to leave, a voice spoke sharply from behind, “Excuse you?” The satyr nearly jumped out of his skin as he whirled around. Flora stood before him, hands planted on her hips. She regarded him with her nose wrinkled in disgust. “Are you really going to disrespect my forest like that? You dirty _pig_ , you!”

 

     Itchy stepped back, waving his hands before him. He stammered as he explained, “Woah, I meant no disrespect! Really! Look, I’m new here. You gotta give me a break!”

“I’ll _break_ your knees if you don’t march over there and pick up those bottles this instant!” Flora barked, pointing behind her where the trash was flung.

 

     With a nod and some muttered apologies, Itchy scurried through the thickest of undergrowth in search of his litter. He cringed as the thorny brambles scraped him. Flora watched until he finally emerged, covered in cuts and nicks. He held the bottles to her and said, “Found ‘em. Here you go.”

 

     “Oh, so now they’re _my_ problem?” The nymph crossed her arms. “Ugh, I knew you’d be trouble! Satyrs usually are, especially the men!” She shook her head.

 

     Then after a pause, she explained, “Listen to me. I don’t know where you’re from, but we do things differently here in Drifter’s Hollow. This land is the body of my mother, Gaia, and unlike some of my lazy sisters I am not going to stand by while Her peoples graze Her barren! So if you want to reap Her bounty, you have to sow something back.”

 

     Itchy asked, “How am I supposed to do that?”

“By using your head,” the nymph replied, tapping the side of her skull. “Every action has a consequence, and nothing you do affects only you. If you want to stay here, I ask that you consider your fellow person before you act from now on. That includes my mother.”

 

     Itchy glanced down at the bottles. “Gotcha. So what do I do with these?”

“Take them to the glassmaker down that way.” Flora pointed towards the east. “There is a big container full of glass in front of her building, you can’t miss it. She and her wife recycle every shard of it.”

 

     Plucking a daisy from her hair, the nymph inspected it as she went on, “Even Gwyneth won’t import those awful plastics and chemicals from the east. Anything that cannot be returned to Gaia is not welcome here. So show some respect, or else show yourself out. Are we clear?”

 

     With that, she handed the daisy to Itchy. His hand hovered, hesitating before he took it. “As your pretty waters, lassie.”

 

*

 

     Olof was already home when Itchy returned. They were in the middle of a meal when Ginger greeted him, “Itchy, I was getting worried about you! Where have you been?”

The satyr smiled, approached her with confidence and tucked Flora’s daisy in her hair. “I’ve been at work,” he told her. “I got a job at the market!”

 

     Ginger gasped, “Really? Goodness, that’s wonderful! I have some good news of my own.” She tipped her head towards Olof, sitting beside her on the floor. “Flora came by to drop off Frederick and she discussed something with Olof before she left. Did you know she can speak any language in the world? Isn’t that interesting? Could you imagi—”

 

     “Ginj, come on! Spill it!” Itchy urged her.

The satyress raised her palms. “Sorry! Well, anyway…Olof and I came to an agreement. He’s going to build me a little house here in town, and in return I’m going to teach him how to speak Universa! I can teach him to read and write, and of course little Frederick too.” She looked down at the baby centaur, suckling his dinner from her breast.

 

     A roulette of emotions spun through Itchy’s heart. His mouth was smiling, though his brow was burdened. All the confidence was lost from his voice when he said, “Great! That’s great! So, looks like you found that quiet little town you were lookin’ for, huh?”

 

     Ginger shrugged. “It seems like it, at least for now. Are you still planning on moving to Woodborne?”

Itchy paused. Scratching at his arm, he mumbled, “I dunno. Maybe. If this job pays good enough, maybe I can build myself a little house here too.”

“Oh, Itchy,” began Ginger, “you’re always welcome to stay with me! When my house is finished, I mean. Flora said it’ll be a few weeks.”

 

     “Really?” The satyr’s ears shot up, then sank down. “You wanna share a roof with a nasty loser like me, reekin’ as bad as I do?”

 

     Ginger forced a polite smile. “Er, we’ll work on that. And it doesn’t have to be forever! Just until you get a place of your own. You risked your life for me and my son, Itchy, and you haven’t asked a thing in return. I think you’re a beautiful person.”

 

     Itchy stood there in the middle of the room, hands on his hips as he gazed down at the floor. He nodded to himself for a bit, then raised a finger and said, “’Scuse me a minute.”

 

     He walked out the front door. It clicked shut behind him, then he rounded the side of the house. He planted himself down against the most secluded wall, and then he began to weep.

 

*

 

     Olof kept his home open to the satyrs over the next several weeks. Apparently he was a skilled carpenter, and his building style was carried over from his native village of Kaldenfel. He used simple tools of stone and bone, no nails at all. Yet his structures—like his house—were built solid and sturdy, sure to last for generations to come.

 

     The centaur had no troubles hauling heavy logs and boulders around, nor did he struggle to break them into smaller pieces. While he was busy with her new house, Ginger cared for his child alongside her own.

 

     At some point Itchy brought her some childrens’ books from the market. She read the books to the babies and when Olof returned home, she used them to teach him simple Universa.

 

     Itchy, meanwhile, slaved under Gwyneth’s fist. The job was demanding and so was she. Perhaps Brogan could tolerate her strict, no-nonsense approach, but Itchy was struggling more by the day. He returned to his temporary home exhausted and irritable, and to cope with his feelings he would drink.

 

     The more gold Itchy earned, the more he spent. He stashed his pornography inside a log in the woods. But it always melted away in the moisture, so he bought more and more to replace it. He’d gone through every prostitute in town once and only once, for they were disgusted by his stench and refused to serve him twice.

 

     Every week more gold passed through his hands, every week he became more disgruntled, and every week he drank a little more. At first Itchy drank the moment he left work. Then he began sneaking drinks on the clock. Before long he was too drunk by the end of the day to show his face at Olof’s house.

 

     So he would stumble off and pass out in the woods instead. Ginger was none the wiser. As far as she knew, he was simply buying nights at the village inn for privacy.

 

     One day at high sun, Olof returned home early. He wore a big smile as he beckoned Ginger to follow him. She carried Tomato, Frederick bouncing along in tow as they walked through the village. Not far from the main road was a tiny house with a steep, shingled roof.

 

     It was built from logs with a base of cobblestone, with small glass windows on every side. A brick chimney jutted up through the roof. Leading up to the front door was a walkway of flat, round stones and colorful flowers. A simple wooden fence wrapped around the house’s eastern side, where the soil had been tilled and prepared for crops.

 

     Ginger gasped, brought her hand to her mouth as she almost fell to her knees. She leaned against Olof’s equine body, looked up at him with tears in her eyes. “My goodness, it’s—it’s even better than I imagined! What a beautiful, wonderful, house!” she cried.

 

     Olof didn’t understand her words, but he understood her gratitude when she sobbed against his leg. He chuckled, patted her head and led her to the front door. Unlike his door, this one had a keyhole below the brass knob. The whole knob was likely bought from Gwyneth’s market, Ginger figured, or perhaps custom-forged by the village blacksmith.

 

     The centaur handed her a leather cord with a key on the end. Ginger used it to unlock the door, then started bawling again when she stepped inside. The furnishings were minimal, but then again, she hadn’t expected furnishings at all.

 

     There was a simple table with two wooden stools at one wall, a rug woven from grasses lying on the plank floor, and a lovely brick fireplace with a pot and three ceramic dishes sitting on the mantle. She recognized these dishes as Olof’s own, and she was sure she’d seen him wear the “rug” on his back at least once.

 

     Sitting on one of the stools was Flora, who spread her arms and exclaimed, “Surprise! Welcome home, Ginger!”

“Flora,” the satyress sniffled, “this is so much more than I deserve! H-how did Olof possibly afford all this?”

 

     The nymph dismissively slapped the air. “He didn’t _afford_ much. I let him take some trees and stones from the forest and he turned them into this place. A few villagers donated some of their time and old junk too. Olof’s a much beloved man of many talents.” She smiled and winked at the centaur. Olof swiped at his neck, a pink blush creeping over his face.

 

     Ginger walked through the little space, turning all around. There wasn’t much to it, just a single room with hay piled in the corner for a bed. But when she looked up at the tall, vaulted ceiling, she noticed a whole loft space with a ladder leading up to it. It nearly made her cry again.

 

     Flora stood up and embraced her, said, “Olof’s told me how much he fancies you. If he welcomes you here, then so do I. I do hope you’ll stay, Miss Ginger.”

 

     The satyress threw her arm around Flora’s neck. “After all this, how could I possibly leave?” she sniffled.

 

*

 

     Itchy bounded off as fast as his hooves would carry him, shoving villagers out of his path along the way. Brogan was hot on his tail, shaking his fist as he bellowed, “I knew it was you, ya thievin’ scalawag! Quit runnin’ and take yer beatin’ like a man!”

 

     But Itchy stopped for nothing, instead taking a sharp turn and disappearing into the roadside forest. Brogan thrashed through the growth just behind, screaming obscenities at him the whole way.

 

     So he’d been caught. It was only a matter of time, Itchy supposed, after he started sneaking into the market during the night.

 

     The padlocks were picked, some alcohol was swiped, and then he crept away under the shroud of darkness. Every morning for the last couple weeks, he arrived at the market to hear Gwyneth chastising Brogan for it.

 

     “Only two people have a key, Brogan,” she growled. “You and me! Do you think I’m an idiot? This is coming right out of your pay!”

 

     This evening, Itchy had been careless. He simply couldn’t wait until nightfall, so he tried to sneak a drink while Gwyneth and Brogan had their backs turned. It simply did not work out in his favor, and now he was facing the consequences of his terrible decisions once again. This whole scenario felt sickeningly familiar.

 

     Itchy scrambled blindly through the forest, swiping leaves and thorns out of his way until he stumbled into a clearing. He came to a sudden, clumsy stop at the very edge of a pond. He looked this way and that. Nowhere to run, and now it was too late as Brogan tackled him down into the slimy water.

 

     “Ya swill-suckin’ bastard! I knew you was drunk lately, the way you been swayin’ about like a tree in the wind!” Brogan shouted. He tangled his fingers in Itchy’s hair and dunked his head below the water. Itchy thrashed and spluttered, desperately struggling in his iron grip.

 

     But Brogan had over a foot of height and perhaps fifty pounds on him, well-muscled with a bulging beer-gut. He looked to be a few years older, his face hard-featured and slightly crooked as if it had been smashed a couple times in his life. Long brown horns curled out from the sides of his head.

 

     Itchy was no match. After repeatedly dunking him, punching him, and driving a knee into his gut, Brogan finally dragged Itchy out of the water and threw him down on the shore. The dark-haired satyr twitched and hyperventilated. He coughed up a mouthful of water and tiny plants. A flopping minnow splashed out with it all.

 

     Brogan delivered one final kick and snarled, “Only reason I ain’t killin’ you is ‘cause you owe me money, ya scumbag! Pay up by the end’a the week or yer dead!”

 

     That said, he stormed off back through the sloppy trail they made. Itchy lied on the shore for some time, quivering and trying to ease his racing mind. What to do? He was soaked, he was unemployed, and now he was in debt on top of it all. Where would he get his next drink? How was he going to build a house?

 

     What could he possibly tell Ginger?

 

*

 

     Itchy returned to Olof’s house, only to see everyone else leaving. Ginger stepped out with Tomato in her arms, Olof holding a stack of linens behind her. Frederick galloped playfully around his father’s ankles. Ginger waved at Itchy as he approached, then gasped when she saw his condition.

 

     “Itchy, what happened?” she exclaimed. “You’re all bloody and bruised! Did someone hurt you?”

The satyr bit his tongue, gaze shifting between everyone before him. “Uh…” he croaked.

 

     Then after entirely too long, he finished, “Nah, I’m fine! Just took a tumble in the woods is all. But hey, listen,” he forced a wide grin above anxious eyes, “you ain’t gonna believe this, but I quit my job today.”

 

     Ginger’s brows shot up. “You what? Why on Gaia would you quit? I thought you liked it there.”

“Because…” Itchy began slowly, meanderingly, “Because I’m…I’m going to work for myself from now on. Be my own boss! Been thinkin’ it over for a while now, and I decided I wanna make wine.”

 

     Ginger looked back at Olof. The centaur shrugged. Then she turned back to Itchy and said, “I see. Well, I’m sure you could make a lot of money that way. Have you ever made wine before?”

 

     “Yeah, sure!” Itchy blurted. “Used to make it all the time! I know what I’m doin’, Ginj, believe me. And once I’m rollin’ in gold, I’ll buy you a castle up in Folkvar Capital for you ‘n your kiddo.”

 

     The satyress giggled, “You don’t have to do that. In fact, Olof just finished my house today! We’re moving some stuff over there now. Would you like to come see?”

“Sure, let’s see it!”

 

     With her babe in one hand, Ginger took Itchy’s hand in the other and strolled down the path to her new home. Olof’s hooves clomped heavily behind them. She turned to Itchy and added, “There isn’t much inside yet. But it’s just gorgeous, Itchy! It even has a loft, so I thought if you wanted some privacy…” She shrugged. “Well, I figured you haven’t been coming home because you were feeling crowded. Forgive me for my assumptions.”

 

     “Huh?” Itchy quirked a brow, then shook his head and threw an arm around her shoulder. “It ain’t like that at all! You guys are like family! I just, uh…Feel bad about my terrible snoring sometimes, so I thought I’d give you all a break.”

 

     “You don’t have to worry about it here. It’ll be just you, me, and Tomato until you get your winery going.” Ginger nudged him and smiled. “I’m very excited for you. With all the experience you’ve had, I think you’re going to do great.”

 

     Itchy forced a chuckle, his face burning like fire. The hole he dug was so deep, it may as well have been a grave.

 

     Now he was forced to commit to this web of lies, or else be exposed as a shifty lowlife. Ginger was kind. She was intelligent and polite and upstanding, someone from a whole different world than Itchy. She’d become dear to him in ways he couldn’t even understand, and the thought of her dropping him out of her life like the trash he was…Well, he wasn’t sure he could bear it. Not again.

 

     He had to make this winemaking business a reality. Problem was, Itchy didn’t know the first thing about winemaking. But he _did_ know exactly how to make strong, crude moonshine, for he helped Adel and Mr. Sarfeesha make their illicit in-house brand more times than he could count.

 

     Word of his misdeed was probably spreading around the village this very moment. There was no way anyone would hire him for anything. So after pretending to fall asleep in Ginger’s loft, Itchy crept out of the house around midnight with one of Tomato’s blankets. He made his way not to Gwyneth’s market, but straight to her treehouse.

 

     She always stored extra stock in the base of the tree, shut off by a little padlocked door. The padlock was no match for Itchy, and before long he was digging into a burlap sack of corn. He took just enough to fill the blanket, then closed the bag and then the door. He left no evidence as he skulked away into the forest.

 

     He stored the grain in the same massive, rotting log where he stored his pornography. He returned to the village to stop at Olof’s house, and with ease he sneaked through the lockless door as Olof slept. He swiped one of the centaur’s large buckets and filled it up with water from the pond.

 

     Itchy sneaked all over the village and swiped anything he could get his hands on. Pails from the glassmaker, copper tubing from the blacksmith, yeast from the baker, a kettle from someone’s house…These too were stored in the log, and he would use them to build a simple still.

 

     He was just _borrowing_ these things, he reasoned. He would return them once he made enough profit to buy his own supplies. No harm done. The blanket full of corn was placed in the bucket of water and left inside the log.

 

     He should have sprouts in a week, he thought, from which he could make moonshine mash. But Brogan was also coming to murder him in a week. So now that he’d finished part 1 of his plan, all Itchy could do was wait until tomorrow to execute part 2.

 

     The satyr was exhausted by the time he trudged back to Ginger’s house. He hadn’t slept more than hour before the sunlight roused him and Ginger was ready for the day. “Flora gave me some seeds,” she said. “I’d like to start the garden before the end of fall. Do you have time to help me, Itchy?”

 

     And Itchy, eyes bloodshot with gelatin bones, told her, “I always got time for you, lassie.” Together they took the basket of seeds out to the fenced area beside the house. Ginger held Tomato at her breast, pointing and directing Itchy at what to do next.

 

     When his hands were black with dirt and his knees wobbled with wear, Ginger left to care for Frederick while Olof was away. This was the perfect time to finish his plan, Itchy thought.

 

     He took off down the northeastern road leading out of Drifter’s Hollow. The delivery wagon couldn’t be far now. Some miles from the village, he found a sharp stick and began stabbing the road. Gradually the packed dirt was loosened and dug out, and with his hands he clawed and scooped until the hole was as deep as his arm was long.

 

     Itchy covered the hole with leaves and branches, then waited on the roadside for the delivery wagon. When others passed, he called out, “Be careful! Big hole on your right!” The passersby thanked him and moved on, leaving his trap undisturbed.

 

     When he saw the familiar mule-drawn wagon in the distance, Itchy hid in the roadside growth and peeked out from behind a tree. He held his breath, ears drawn back as he watched. After a tremendous clunk, a braying mule, and a “wooooah!” from the driver, Itchy pumped his fist victoriously.

 

     The wagon’s right wheel sank into the hole and then broke off completely. When the human driver and his dworven guard stepped down to inspect it, Itchy crept up to the side of the wagon. Here was a door to the cab where the driver slept on long journeys, and surely where he kept his valuables as well.

 

     Picking the lock took less than a minute. Itchy heard the driver and his guard bickering over the wheel outside as he sneaked into the cramped cab.

 

     He had to be quick. He searched the pillowcase, then inside a pair of shoes. Nothing. Then he lifted the mattress, and sure enough he found a small metal lockbox.

 

     Coins jingled inside when he picked it up, and a weighty thing it was. Itchy peeked this way and that before he left the cab. He ducked back in when the guard passed by, grumbling about a spare wheel. He disappeared to the back of the wagon, then Itchy made his escape into the forest.

 

     He got himself into this mess with thievery, and he would get himself out of it with thievery.

 

*

 

     Paying Brogan now would be far too obvious. The driver would surely have stories to tell when he arrived at the market. Itchy decided to stash the box in his secret log until Brogan came to collect. In the meantime he was convinced that he had everything in order. Now it was time to relax.

 

     Over the next few days he helped Ginger tend the garden. In the evenings he listened in on her reading lessons with Olof. Then every night, he checked the stash in his hiding place before going to sleep in the loft. Perhaps everything would be just fine.

 

     Or perhaps everything would crumble around him. For on the 7th day when Brogan was due to arrive, Itchy checked his stash only to find his lockbox missing. His scream of horror scared birds from the canopy above. For nearly an hour he thrashed around in the bushes trying to find it, but it seemed someone had taken it in the night.

 

     He reluctantly trudged back to Ginger’s house empty-handed. When he arrived, Brogan was already standing by the front door talking to Ginger. She pointed at Itchy, then Brogan turned to face him. His cheeks were red with fury.

 

     “You!” the dirty-blonde satyr called. “I told ya I’d come fer that money—now where is it?”

Hanging his head, tone low and defeated, Itchy sighed, “It’s gone.”

 

     Brogan seized Itchy by his hair and growled, “What do ya mean ‘gone’? I want my gold, scum! Hand it over now!”

“Yeah, well, you ain’t gettin’ it ‘cause someone stole it last night!” Itchy barked.

 

     Ginger rushed towards them, mindful of the whimpering infant in her arms when she pried Brogan’s grip off Itchy’s head. “That’s enough!” she cried. “What on Gaia is going on here?”

 

     “I told ya,” said Brogan, jabbing his finger towards Itchy, “that scalawag owes me money! He was stealin’ booze from the market fer weeks and Gwyneth blamed it all on me! Now he better pay back what he owes or he’s payin’ a visit to the morgue!”

 

     Itchy cringed as if a fist was raised at his face. Ginger turned to him, face slack in shock. “Itchy,” she began, “is that true?”

“I…uh…” he began, but Brogan cut him off.

“I ain’t no liar! Ask Gwyneth, she’ll tell ya! Fired him on the spot last week and he ain’t _never_ welcome back!”

 

     “Itchy! Why would you do something like that?” the satyress raised her voice in disbelief. Tomato began to cry and she gently rocked him. “You told me you were done with all that. All that… _thieving_ and such! Didn’t you come here for a better life?”

 

     Itchy raked his fingers through his thinning hair, exclaimed, “I know, I know! I screwed up and I screwed up bad! I’m sorry! I was miserable workin’ for that snotty elf and I was afraid you’d find out. So I drank. It made me feel better.” He frowned and shook his head. “I let it get outta control. I’m sorry, Ginger.”

 

     “You lied to me!” the satyress told him. Her green eyes were full of hurt, betrayal. “How long did you think you could keep lying? All this time I trusted you, and you made a fool of me!”

 

     “Made a fool outta all of us, lass,” said Brogan. He grasped Itchy’s horn and gave his head a jerk. “Now pay up or I’ll rip yer head clean off yer shoulders! Clearly you ain’t usin’ it anyway!”

 

     “Brogan, don’t! Just wait a moment,” said Ginger, and then she disappeared into the house. The two satyrs waited, and a short moment later she returned. She offered a handful of gold coins to Brogan and asked, “I’ve been giving reading lessons around town. This is all the money I’ve earned. Will it cover everything?”

 

     The larger satyr swiped the coins from her hand and counted them out. Reluctantly he grumbled, “Mmmm… _No_. But yer a sweet lass and I don’t want to disturb ya no more. Don’t want the pup to grow up without a daddy either.” He then wrenched Itchy’s horn, slamming him into the dirt before delivering a harsh kick to his gut.

 

     “Yer a parasite,” he told Itchy. “A damn dirty animal! Yer lucky yer wife’s a good woman or I’d really put ya down. Now stay outta my sight! I don’t wanna see yer wretched face again, thief.” Itchy coughed and sputtered as Brogan stormed off. Ginger stooped and helped him to his feet.

 

     “You told him I was your _wife_?” she queried flatly. “You really have a problem, don’t you? How do I know anything you’ve said is true at all?”

Itchy coughed, “Ginger, please! I’m really, really sorry about this. You know, Brogan’s right. I am a dirty animal! And I just…I didn’t want you to know that. I wanted to be worth somethin’ to you.”

 

     He tipped his head down and scrubbed at his forehead. “Yer the only woman who ever gave me a chance. Yer the nicest, smartest, prettiest lady I ever met. I was scared to lose you, you know?”

 

     Ginger shook her head in disapproval. “Then you should have been honest with me from the start. If I don’t have trust in you, then what are you to me? You’re not a friend, that’s for sure!” Her expression contorted with disgust and she grumbled, “Ugh! All these lying, stupid men! You’re all the same, I swear…!”

 

     She was about to turn around, but Itchy grabbed her arm and jumped in front of her. “Ginger, wait!” he said. “It ain’t like that, okay?”

“You keep saying that, but—”

“No, no, just listen! I…” He closed his eyes tight, the words caught in his throat like the hard pit of a cherry.

 

     Finally he swallowed the feeling back, placed his hands on her shoulders and admitted, “I’m head over hoof for ya, Ginj. You got me feelin’ all kinds of ways I never felt in my life! And you know what I realized?” He gave her shoulders a squeeze. “ _This_ is the feelin’ the priestesses were preachin’ about all those years! This is what love is, I know it!”

 

     “Love?” Ginger’s expression softened.

“It has to be!” explained Itchy. “’Cause if it weren’t, I’d be fuckin’ off in Woodborne right about now. Or lyin’ dead on the road to Woodborne, one of the two.”

 

     He paused, gaze flicking back to hers. “Point is, I wouldn’t have stayed and I wouldn’t have tried. I care about ya, Ginj! Please, give me a chance to make it up to you! I’m not a good person, we both know that. But you make me wanna try to be!”

 

     The satyress’ jaw fell slack, at a loss for words as she looked around her. After a deep breath, she pushed his hands off her shoulders and said, “If what you’re saying is _true_ , then I suppose I should give you a chance to prove it.”

“I’ll do anything for you! Anything at all, just say the word!”

 

     “Alright. If you’re serious about me and you’re serious about leaving your past behind,” she began slowly, “then you’ll start by going down to the river and washing the dirt away. Prove to me that you have some self-respect, and then we can talk about your respect for me and the rest of society.”

 

     Itchy’s ears drooped. “Oh. A bath, huh?”

“Yep. And don’t bother showing your face until it’s squeaky-clean, until your fleas are gone and you smell fresh as a daisy. If you can do that for me, then I’ll have hope for you yet.”

 

*

 

     The river ran slow and gentle, water as clear and blue as the sky above. Itchy’s reflection stared back at him with doubt. He took in a deep breath and reached out towards the water. His hand hovered there, inches above. His teeth gnashed as if he expected some beast to rise up and bite him, then he dipped his fingers in its maw.

 

     It was all he could take. Just as soon he drew it back and frantically shook the droplets away. No. There was no way he could do this—not without the help of his old friend, alcohol. And as of now he had none.

 

     No job and no thieving meant no coin. No coin meant no alcohol and without alcohol, he couldn’t possibly face this other liquid monster that terrorized him his entire life.

 

     Maybe tomorrow he would have more courage, he thought. So he made camp at his log, tended his moonshine, and foraged for food using all the skills Ginger had taught him.

 

     The next day came and went. Still he could not find the courage to face the water, so he made it tomorrow’s problem.

 

     Then the next day. Then the day after that. Before long an entire month had passed, and Itchy was still filthy and longing to see Ginger’s face. He loved her as much as he hated the water, it seemed, for he could not force himself to bathe.

 

     At least until his moonshine was finished. At last, his first batch was ready to be bottled and sold. The product was of terrible quality, but it would get anyone real drunk real fast and that’s what truly mattered. Especially for Itchy, who knocked back the moonshine until his fear turned to courage.

 

     Itchy took a running start and splashed into the river, whooping and shrieking as it chilled his bones. It was still early in this crisp autumn morning. If he started now, he would sober up by the time Ginger was done with her lessons.

 

     He scrubbed every last inch of himself maniacally, soaping up with a mixture he made from ground roots and flowers. He sprinkled the same mixture into his mouth and scrubbed his teeth with his fingers.

 

     The satyr chattered to himself all the while, growling curses at the water and slapping at it when he felt it had sassed him back. Perhaps it really did, for a voice called from behind him, “Well, well! The dirty pig is finally getting clean!”

 

     Itchy nearly fell in the water as he whipped around towards the shore. Flora stood atop his rotting log and smiled back at him, arms crossed loosely at her chest. She went on, “I was starting to give up on you. I thought all my effort was for nothing, but I guess you’re teachable after all.”

 

     “What are you talkin’ about?” Itchy queried.

Flora explained flippantly, “I’m talking about that wagon you robbed last month. The dryads really got a kick out of it. You were the talk of the forest for days!”

 

     She hopped off the log and stepped up to the shore. “Anyway, I couldn’t just stand by and let things go your way. What would you learn then? So I returned the gold to the wagoner and let Brogan rough you up a little.”

 

     The satyr’s brows nearly jumped off his head. “Flora, that guy almost _killed_ me!”

“Oh, please. I told you we do things differently in Drifter’s Hollow. We’re not savages, Itchy. We do not rob people of their lives. If someone makes a nuisance of themselves, the worst I’d ever allow is banishment.”

 

     “So why don’t you banish me?” asked Itchy. “Clearly you get your jollies makin’ me miserable! Are you just keepin’ me around to torture me or what?”

Flora rolled her eyes. “It’s true that I don’t like you. I find your behavior simply repugnant. But Ginger _does_ like you, and I like her. I like her very much. She is everything I wish the rest of the villagers would strive to be.”

 

     “Wait. She likes me?” Itchy stepped out of the river and stopped before Flora on the shore.

“Oh, yes,” said Flora. “I surely question her taste, but…She misses you dearly, you know. Every day I come to visit, she goes on and on about you. Clearly she has love for you, you miserable thing. But you make yourself so difficult to love.”

“Are you sure? W-what does she say about me?”

 

     “Some good things. Some bad things. Some silly things.” The nymph shrugged. “You should go find out for yourself.”

Itchy looked down at his body, fur soaked and dripping like a wet dog. “You think I should? Do I look clean enough? How do I smell?”

 

     Flora chuckled, “Better than you ever have since I met you. You clean up nicely, I’ll give you that. I think you just need one more thing…” Plucking a magic seed from her hair, Flora dabbed it against her tongue and then stuck it to Itchy’s forehead. With a wave of her glowing hand, it rapidly sprouted into a crown of white daises.

 

     “There,” she said. “Now you truly smell fresh as a daisy.”

 

*

 

     In the evening, Ginger finished her last reading lesson and returned home. She carried Tomato in a sling, singing softly to him as she walked back to her house.

 

     “Good evening, Ms. Ginger! You’re looking lovely today!” an elven passerby greeted with a tip of his hat.

Ginger smiled and replied, “Good evening to you, Sir!”

 

     On her way back to her little house, she was greeted and complimented by several others. Already she had made a name for herself in Drifter’s Hollow, for she brought with her the gift of literacy. Here in the wilderness, such a gift was precious indeed.

 

     Ginger arrived home and stepped into a fully-furnished sitting room. Wilting bouquets lie on every surface—gifts from the village bachelors and bachelorettes clamoring for her attention.

 

     But Ginger didn’t know them, nor did she care to. Every night she tucked Tomato into his cradle and then lie alone in her bed of straw, longing for just one person.

 

     But that person did not long for her, it seemed. He had disappeared from her life weeks ago and she grieved his absence as if he were dead. For all she knew, he may very well have been.

 

     Spreading a blanket and some wooden blocks on the floor, Ginger set Tomato upon it before starting dinner. Her crops were fat and thriving with some discreet help from Flora, she suspected. As she sliced through her bounty of parsnips, there was a knock on the door.

 

     “Just a minute!” the satyress called. She picked up the stone-tipped axe lying beside the door and hid it behind her back. But when she peeked through the crack, she dropped the weapon with a gasp and wrenched the door wide open.

 

     “Itchy!” she exclaimed. “My gods, you’re alive! And,” she leaned forward and sniffed the air around him, “you smell wonderful! Where have you been all this time?”

 

     Taking his hand, she pulled the satyr inside and closed the door behind him. Itchy stood before her wearing a crown of fresh daisies on his head. His hair, beard, and the fur on his legs shone in the candlelight.

 

     He removed the crown and placed it on Ginger’s head as he explained, “Been slobbin’ around in the woods, mostly. Thinkin’ stuff over. Tryin’ to get my shi—er, _stuff_ together.”

 

     His gaze drifted to the side as he scratched at his arm. After a brief pause, he added, “I was miserable, Ginj. I couldn’t stand bein’ away from you anymore."

 

     “Oh, Itchy, I couldn’t stand it either!” Ginger pulled him into a tight squeeze. “I missed the way you made me laugh. How you were always there for me and so eager to help. You really faced your biggest fear for me?”

 

     “Yeah! I marched right up to that water, sober as a monk, and I…I, uh…” Itchy trailed off, biting his tongue before he dug himself deeper.

 

     Then he dug his hoof into the floor, looking sheepish as he admitted, “Okay, that’s another lie. I’m sorry. See, I been makin’ moonshine out in the forest. Finished my first batch today and it got me through the bath. Strong stuff! I know it’ll sell!”

 

     Ginger furrowed her brow. “Moonshine? Don’t you need all kinds of equipment to do that?” she asked.

Itchy rubbed his neck and floundered, “Yeeeaaah…”

“Itchy…” The satyress crossed her arms.

 

     “Alright, you got me. It’s all stolen,” sighed Itchy. “The grain, the still, the tools—I took it all from the village. But!” He spread his fingers before him, forcing a sheepish grin. “I promise you, once I sell the ‘shine and make some money, I’m gonna pay every bit of it back.”

 

     Ginger fell silent, looking sullen as she rested her chin in her hand. Her gaze drifted away from him until he gently turned her face. “I can do this,” he told her. “It ain’t gonna happen overnight, but…Ginger, I think I can really pull it together. I think I can finally turn myself around!”

 

     “Oh? And what’s so different now than from before?” she queried doubtfully.

His ears dropped low, looking her in the eyes as he said, “Now I got you.”

Ginger planted her hands on her hips. “I don’t want to fix your problems for you, Itchy—”

 

     “I don’t want you to either! Look…” The dining chair creaked as Itchy sat on it. He continued, “I never had much reason to _try_ in my life. Never saw a future beyond bein’ a dirty animal ‘cause that’s all I ever saw around me. Dirty, stupid satyrs bummin’ around Taybiya. Dirty, stupid satyrs bummin’ around foreign slums…”

 

     He shook his head. “You’re somethin’ else, Ginger. If I could be like anyone in the world, I’d be like you. But it ain’t easy, ‘cause I never had the things you had, you know? My Ba-Ba wasn’t a city-girl. She couldn’t _read_! All she ever did was die and leave me an old man who never had time for me. And when he died, he didn’t leave me nothin’ at all.”

 

     Ginger’s face sank into a sullen frown. Slowly she lowered herself into the chair beside him. She took his hand into her own as he went on, “He always told me to do my best with what I got. Well, I didn’t used to have anything. But now I got you, and him too.” He tipped his head to the baby babbling on the floor.

 

     He squeezed Ginger’s hand, said, “I’m gonna do my best for you, I promise. Maybe I can’t run a fancy winery and buy a castle like I said, but…I can make mean ‘shine and get my hands dirty all night ‘n day! Will you let me try, Ginger? Please?”

 

     Ginger fell silent for a long moment. The room suddenly felt heavy and oppressively hot. Itchy’s hand trembled in her grip and she could feel the sweat in his palms.

 

     At last she met his gaze once more. She said, “I know it’s probably foolish, and I try so hard not to repeat my mistakes…”

 

     She let out a sigh, followed by a little smile. “But I love you. I want to see you be the best you can be. So as long as you can do that for me, I’ll do my best for you too.” With that, she bent forward and planted a kiss on the satyr’s lips.

 

     Itchy’s eyes rounded like coins, then closed like shutters when he leaned into it. The two pulled away wearing wide smiles as Itchy straightened Ginger’s crown of daisies. “So,” she began, “about this business of yours…”

 

     “All I need now are some bottles,” said Itchy. “I just gotta cork it, then hock it. Simple!”

“Mm-hm. And where do you plan on getting the bottles?”

Itchy froze. His face began to turn white.

 

     Ginger smiled and assured him calmly, “You know, one of my students is a glassmaker. She recycles old glass into all kinds of things. Vases, windows, bottles…I bet we could work out some kind of deal.”

Itchy’s chest deflated as the color returned to his face. “I’m one lucky animal, Ginj,” he said.

 

     Rising to her hooves with a smile, Ginger returned to her parsnips waiting on the chopping block. “I was just making dinner,” she told him. “It’s parsnip stew. I know it’s nothing fancy, but you’re more than welcome to join us.”

 

     Itchy stood up and guided her away from the block. He took the knife from her hand, said, “Go relax, play with the boy. I got this.”

“You’re sure you can handle it?”

 

     “Ain’t no vegetable defeated me yet.” Itchy spun the knife in his fingers. It slipped through his grip and the blade stuck into the floorboards at his hooves. He froze, eyes flicking up to her face. Ginger simply kissed his cheek and then tended to her child.

 

     Dinner was eaten by the light of a single candle. Tomato slept soundly in his cradle while frogs and crickets sang their lullabies outside. Itchy dunked the soup bowls in the wash basin, then placed them out to dry. “Guess I should go,” he said quietly. “Don’t wanna keep you up too late.”

 

     Ginger smiled. Wrapping her arms around his neck she dragged him down into her bed of hay. “I told you to stop lying,” she said.

 

Itchy grinned back. “You got me.”

 

*

 

     Morning sun spilled through the eastern window, shining into Tomato’s cradle. The baby didn’t appreciate it one bit and began to cry.

 

     Ginger’s eyes fluttered open. With a long, groaning yawn, she disentangled herself from Itchy and stumbled over to her child. “It’s okay, darling…Ba-Ba’s here…” she yawned, lifting the baby from the cradle. She quieted him at her breast as Itchy continued to snore away on the floor.

 

     Peeking out the window, she saw crows pecking away at her crops. “Oh, you darn birds! It’s too early for you!” she grumbled. Then she turned to the bed of hay. “Itchy, I think it’s time to tend the garden. Will you help me give the scarecrow a makeover?”

 

     The satyr stretched his arms and legs out like a starfish, then slowly sat up and scratched his backside. “Mmmhhhyeahsure…” he mumbled groggily. Ginger placed Tomato back in his crib, then together she and Itchy stepped outside in the cool morning air.

 

     Such temperatures would send a fleshy, naked human running back indoors. But satyrs were a hardy people, and surviving the elements was their greatest strength. Ginger and Itchy undressed the crude scarecrow standing in the center of the garden. It was a simple t-shaped structure wearing a tattered shirt and hat. Every few weeks the crows grew bold, but switching its outfit always fooled them again.

 

     Once the scarecrow was looking fresh and dapper, the satyrs set about killing parasites on the crops. Any slugs and locusts were eaten on the spot. “Serves you right for hurting my poor plants,” was the last thing a slug heard from Ginger before she swallowed it down.

 

     When she tried to pull weeds, Itchy stopped her and said, “Don’t get yourself dirty. You gotta go teach in a while.”

“You really want to pull all these yourself?” Ginger queried.

 

     Itchy shrugged. “No clock tells me what to do. I’ll finish this, just go inside and warm up.”

The satyress stooped to kiss his head and said, “You’re sweet. I’ll talk to the glassmaker today about those bottles.”

 

     Then she rounded the side of the house and disappeared. Itchy let out a sigh, long and satisfied. Despite the cold his bones were full of warmth.

 

     The hour passed and Ginger had long since left with Tomato to give reading lessons. Once he finished pulling the weeds, Itchy wiped the sweat from his brow and left a dark streak of soil. He looked down at his hands with dismay. His nails were black, the filth smeared all the way up to his elbows. After all that time and effort he spent getting clean yesterday…

 

     Itchy spit in his hands and tried to rub the soil away. Now the mess was even worse. Admitting defeat, he made his way towards the river and kneeled down at its shore. He glanced back towards his narrow self-made trail. His stash of moonshine wasn’t far.

 

     The satyr turned back towards the water. His reflection looked back at him with fear in his eyes, so Itchy closed them. His stomach rolled and his nerves quaked when he stepped into the water, sober as a monk.

 

     As he drowned in nothing but fear, he washed the dirt away.

 


	6. EPILOGUE

### [EPILOGUE]

 

_SPRING, YEAR 6001_

 

     Time passed like the wind in Drifter’s Hollow. Before Itchy knew it, his scalp was bald and his horns had grown ever longer, curling back like sickles. When he looked at his reflection, he saw strands of gray in his beard and stubbornly plucked them out. He was 39 years old now, just one year away from the autumn of a satyr’s life.

 

     But little Tomato was still enjoying his spring years, now walking, talking and even reading far more competently than Itchy ever could. He was sharp just like Ginger. Unlike Ginger, however, he was a menacing little troublemaker.

 

     “Can’t I do it just this once? Pleeeease?” the child begged, clasping his hands desperately before his chin. He stood at the place where the old log rotted, the place where Itchy produced his infamous moonshine.

 

     Itchy sat atop the log, searching the still’s tubing for the clog. “I told you, I’m _not_ teachin’ you how to make this garbage!” he said sternly. “Trust me, it ain’t for you!”

“I won’t drink it, I promise! I just wanna know how.”

Itchy shook his head. “What do you wanna do this for, huh? Why don’t you learn from your momma and do what she does?”

 

     “Aw, mom’s boring. She doesn’t let me do _anything_!” Tomato grumbled. He kicked at the loose dirt and went on, “She says I’m not allowed to throw rocks or say cusses or play in the mud hole. Freddie gets to play in the mud! How come she won’t let me? It’s not fair!”

 

     “There’s fleas in that mud, ya know,” Itchy told him. Then he found the clog, untwisted the segment of the tube and sucked it out with his mouth.

Tomato replied, “I don’t care! I wanna be like you, Mr. Itchy. You drink beer and say bad words all you want. You don’t have to go to school or take baths if you don’t want to. Mom makes me take a bath every day and it’s dumb!”

 

     Itchy let out a sardonic chuckle. “I ain’t nobody to look up to, Tommy. Some people _wish_ they could take a bath every day.”

“I don’t. I wanna sleep outside with the bugs and make ‘shine!”

 

     “You really wanna help?” asked Itchy. He picked up a glass gallon-jug and handed it to the boy. “Then help me carry this stuff. I hear there’s some new guys in town, so let’s go see if they’re thirsty.”

 

     “Okay!” the young satyr beamed, stubby red tail twitching with excitement. He hugged the jug close to his chest as Itchy lifted two more, carrying one in his hand and the other on his opposite shoulder. They walked through the bustling village proper. It had grown steadily over the years, and so too did business at Gwyneth’s market.

 

     Itchy shot a grin towards the elfenne when he passed her at her stall. “Afternoon, Squawker! How’s the eggs today?” he greeted. Gwyneth regarded him with a look of pure disgust.

“Eat shit and choke, you dog,” she sneered.

Itchy feigned shock and gasped, “Hey now, language! I got a kid over here!”

 

     “Then eat _poo_ and choke!” the elfenne barked. Itchy nudged Tomato and the two snickered together.

“She’s a scary lady,” whispered Tomato.

Itchy nodded. “Heh. You think she’s bad now, you should see her in the mornin’…”

 

     Itchy and Tomato passed many neighbors, friends, and enemies on their way down the road, for despite its growth Drifter’s Hollow was still a small, quiet little village tucked in the shadow of Frostbite Crag. Flora continued to act as village authority, judging every newcomer and seeing them out if they made a nuisance of themselves.

 

     Most recently she’d been observing a group of mercenaries that staked their claim right on the edge of town. She mentioned them to Itchy just yesterday and the satyr could already hear the coins jingling in his satchel. Truthfully, selling bootleg alcohol was not where he planned to be. It wasn’t really where he _wanted_ to be either.

 

     But despite all Ginger’s reading lessons, an education was not coming easily to Itchy. Bootlegging was what he had, and so he did his best to make it work. He tried his best in every aspect of his life—at least most days. He was not a perfect person, that much was obvious to himself and everyone around him.

 

     Also obvious was his love for Ginger and her love for him. For no matter how many times the satyr slipped and made a mess of himself, Ginger always welcomed him back as soon as he cleaned himself up again. Their relationship was like the rolling sea, up and down, calm and stormy.

 

     When the waters were calm, they shared their little boat and lived in harmony. When storm clouds rolled in, Ginger tossed Itchy overboard until she saw his blue skies again.

 

     Perhaps she could tolerate his drunken antics, his empty wallet, and his questionable behavior. But she felt that her son shouldn’t have to, and as Tomato grew older he seemed to gravitate towards everything his wholesome mother wasn’t.

 

     So for as long as he could behave, Itchy lived under her roof and acted as part of the family—for he had no roof of his own except his rickety lean-tos that collapsed in the wind. Whatever gold he earned from his moonshine went towards his many vices.

 

     Once in a while when the shame burned too hot, he spent his scraps on books for Tomato. As long as the boy became a smarter, kinder, better person than he, Itchy swore he would smile forever in his grave.

 

     Before long, Itchy and Tomato arrived at the mercenaries’ plot. With Flora’s blessing the trees were being cleared and their lumber was to become homes for them all. As of now, construction had just barely begun. Three canvas tents were neatly lined up in the clearing before a great firepit, tools and materials spread all around.

 

     A group of humans was sitting around the crackling fire pit, chatting and laughing as they enjoyed a meal. Itchy squinted. Perhaps one of them was actually an elf, and another had green scales on her face. A young boy sat beside the scaly woman, probably not much older than Tomato. The other three people had their backs to him.

 

     Itchy cleared his throat to get their attention. He announced, “Afternoon, folks! I got word about some new neighbors, so I just came by to see if you were interested in…some…oh…” Itchy trailed off, eyes rounding as his ears sagged. The three men turned to him, and each one of their faces was dreadfully familiar.

 

     The short-haired man with the bump in his nose stared at him in silence. His brow furrowed harshly. Then he slowly rose to his feet, murmured, “Itchy? Itchy of Taybiya…?”

 

     The satyr took a step back. Tomato looked up at him in confusion and queried, “Mr. Itchy, who are they?”

Swallowing the lump in his throat, Itchy whispered, “Run home. _Now_.” Tomato set the jug down and took off without question, as fast as his little hooves would carry him.

 

     The mercenaries paid the child no mind. They were fixated purely on Itchy with their glowering stares, Lukas and Glenvar rising to stand at Evan’s side. Though they were wearing simple cotton clothes instead of armor, they were no less intimidating.

 

     Itchy offered a nervous, toothy grin and stammered, “Hey! It’s the, uh, Good Boys! Long time no see, huh?”

 

     Evan stepped towards him like a lumbering predator. For every step he took forward, Itchy took another back. “Justice never rots,” the captain told him. “It does not wither with time, as I see you clearly have.”

“Yeah! Where’d all yer hair go, pal?” Glenvar jeered.

 

     The grin remained plastered to Itchy’s face as he explained, “Aw, come on, Captain! It’s been...Five, six years? How about we bury the hatchet? I’m an honest man now. Got myself a job, a house, a little lady and everything!”

 

     “Is that so?” Evan said doubtfully. His jutted his chin forward and asked, “What’s in the jugs?”

The satyr hesitated. “It’s, uh…It’s my craft. Just a little homemade brew, that’s all.”

 

     Evan threw a glance back at his crew. Glenvar and Lukas simultaneously shook their heads. Then he turned back to Itchy and declared, “Sir, you are under arrest for the assault of myself and my crewmen, and the theft of our horse! No tricks this time. Come with me peacefully or you may be harmed.”

“You _will_ be harmed,” added Lukas, loudly cracking his knuckles.

 

     Now the elf and the scaly woman were standing as well. The silence was like a lute string ready to snap. “You have until the count of three…” Evan warned. “One…”

Itchy’s hands trembled.

“Two…”

Evan stepped forward.

“Three…”

Itchy stepped back.

 

     “Time’s up! Grab him!” the captain barked. At once, he, Lukas, and Glenvar rushed the satyr. Itchy turned and bolted, but the heavy jugs were doing him no favors. Not until he pitched them at the mercenaries and struck Lukas in the gut with one, the other rolling under Glenvar’s feet. Both of them toppled like trees as Evan clumsily chased the satyr on his peg-leg.

 

     “Stop now! You have violated the law!” Evan shouted. But Itchy didn’t dare look back as he bounded down the trail, passed the big sign and into the village proper.

 

     Gwyneth spotted him zip by the market, shoving her customers to the ground as he did. She shouted threats at him, but in seconds he was long gone from her property.

 

     Evan pursued him all the way back to Ginger’s little house. It was one of the only places in Drifter’s Hollow with a lock on the door, so Itchy burst inside and slammed it shut, sliding the deadbolt between sweating fingers. He leaned against it as he caught his breath.

 

     When he turned around, three sets of eyes were staring at him: Ginger’s, Tomato’s, and Olof’s. They were all sitting on the floor with several books, papers, and pencils between them. Of course. Ginger was teaching today, Itchy recalled.

 

     Then he jumped, nearly fell backwards when someone pounded on the door. Evan’s voice called from the other side, “Open up, Itchy! You are under arrest!”

“What’s going on?” asked Ginger, quickly rising to her feet.

Before the satyr could answer, Evan threatened, “If you don’t open this door, I’ll bash it down!”

 

     “Wait!” Ginger exclaimed. She shoved Itchy aside and opened the door just a crack, one green eye peeking out at the massive man behind it. His fists were clenched, body positioned as if to ram it with his shoulder. He saw Ginger and then slowly relaxed his posture.

 

     “Er,” Evan cleared his throat, “hello, miss. I’m Captain Evan Atlas, I’m with the Freelance Good Guys. We’re looking for a satyr named Itchy. He is a wanted criminal and possibly dangerous.”

 

     “Oh, come on! I ain’t dangerous!” Itchy hollered from inside. Ginger turned around and hushed him, then faced the captain once more. Two other men were walking up behind him, both looking angry and out of breath.

 

     Her expression was dull, voice weary when she sighed, “What did he do now?”

“He’s committed three counts of assault and one count of horse theft.”

“That was over _five years ago_ , ya knob!” Itchy crowed.

 

     Ginger scrubbed at her eyes. After a moment, she opened the door and told the captain, “Please, come inside. I’m sure we can all talk about this peacefully, can’t we?”

“Ginj, what are you doin’? Don’t let him in!” cried Itchy, promptly opening the window to escape.

Ginger ordered sternly, “You stay right here, mister!” Then she faced Olof. “I’m sorry, Olof. This should only be a moment.”

 

     The centaur nodded in understanding. Meanwhile Evan turned to his crew and told them, “Head back to camp, guys. I’ll take care of this.” Glenvar and Lukas groaned, then slowly walked away mumbling their grievances.

 

     Ginger shut the door but the captain didn’t move far from it. “You have a lovely home here, miss. I wouldn’t want to get dirt on your floors,” he said.

 

     Then he regarded Itchy, cowering under the dining table, with an accusatory finger and explained, “This one used to wreak havoc all over the town of Taybiya in Southriver Wood! He’s served time for everything from petty theft to burglary to prost—” His gaze flicked down to Tomato, now clinging to his mother in fear.

 

     The man sighed, “Nevermind. Anyway, he should have been put behind bars years ago, but somehow he managed to evade us. I’m sorry, but we’ll have to take him in.”

 

     Ginger looked at Itchy, quivering beneath the table. He looked back at her pleadingly.

He didn’t have to say a thing. He simply mouthed a single word, silent and desperate.

 

     “ _Please_ …”

 

     In that moment Ginger knew just what to do. Discreetly she bit the inside of her lip, teeth sinking until she tasted blood and tears welled in her eyes. She dragged Tomato over to Itchy and threw her arms around them both. “No! Please, Mr. Atlas! Please don’t take my dear husband from me!”

 

     Her breath hitched as she cried her false tears. “Gods know he’s far from perfect, but he’s all we have! My poor, poor son! Please don’t take his father away!” She broke down into hard sobs, squeezing her family close. Evan briefly glanced at Olof, who crossed his arms and nervously averted his gaze.

 

     The mercenary captain stood there in the satyrs’ quaint little house, looking around at the muddy hoof-prints, the childrens’ books, the potted flowers, the dirty dishes and scattered toys. A true family home. A happy home.

 

     Evan sighed heavily as he scrubbed at his stubble. Itchy nor Tomato dared speak a word while Ginger won him over with her tears.

 

Finally, Evan forced a gentle smile and told her, “Alright. Just calm down, miss. I…I see that your husband has made a few changes since we last met.”

 

     He hesitated, then addressed Itchy. “You were a scoundrel then and I have no doubt you’re a scoundrel now! But somehow it seems you’ve managed to build a nice little life for yourself, Mr. Itchy. You have a lovely family, I’ll give you that.”

 

     Ginger sniffled, still clutching her men tightly. Evan went on, “This is highly unorthodox, but I’ve decided to drop your charges. As of now, the Freelance Good Guys bear no ill will towards you.”

 

     He raised a finger. “ _However_! We are building our new headquarters right here in town, and we intend to keep these streets clean. Should we catch you out of line, there will be no second chances. Consider this your last warning. Are we understood?”

 

     “Thank you so much, Mr. Atlas!” the satyress cried. “What a kind-hearted man you are! I’m just a simple housewife, you see, and I don’t know what I’d do without my Itchy! Please, will you stay for tea and biscuits?”

 

     Evan showed her a polite smile as he declined. “I appreciate the offer, but I really should get back to my crew. We have a lot of lumber to move and not enough hands to move it.”

 

     “You said you’re building your headquarters, didn’t you?” Ginger queried. She gestured to Olof. “Olof here is the best carpenter in town! I’m sure he’d be more than willing to help you for a fair price.”

 

     “Is that so?” Evan tilted his head at the centaur. “Do you know how to build a longhouse, sir?”

Olof’s brows arched as he replied, “Longhouse is what I do best! Just like home in Kaldenfel. I am happy to build for you, three hundred GP plus material.”

 

     The captain grinned, seemed genuinely pleased. “Sounds more than fair to me! Why don’t you come meet us at our camp tomorrow and we can talk a little more? As for you,” he pointed to Itchy, “stay on the righteous path. If not for yourself, then for these nice people here.”

 

     He tipped his head and opened the door. “I should really get going. You all have a pleasant day.”

 

     With that, the captain disappeared and the tremble in Itchy’s nerves disappeared with him. The satyr let out a big, shaky sigh. “Whew…Oh, god…You’re somethin’ else, Ginger,” he said breathlessly.

 

     “Well, that blowhard had a bit of an ego on him, didn’t he?” said Ginger. She then puffed out her chest, hands planted firmly on her hips as she mocked his deep voice, “ _You were a scoundrel then and I have no doubt you’re a scoundrel now_!” She rolled her eyes. “What an ass.”

 

     Tomato broke into a fit of giggles. “Mom said a swear! Mom said a swear!” he chanted.

Itchy grinned. “Yeah, and she’s a _liar_ too!” He threw an arm around the satyress’ shoulder and winked. “Gonna have to take you in, Ginj. You’re a menace to society.”

 

     “You’re one to talk, Mr. Terror of Taybiya.” Ginger leaned in and planted a kiss on Itchy’s cheek. “But seriously, I want you to be more careful from now on. Things are going to be different with all those mercenaries around. Mischief is their bread and butter, you know!”

 

     “Trust me, don’t I know it,” Itchy grumbled. He sat down on the dining chair before his wobbly knees gave way. Then he pulled Tomato and Ginger into his lap when he said, “Don’t worry about me. I’m gonna do the best with what I got, and these days I got a whole lot.”

 

 

**END**


End file.
